


Hope's Calling

by Act_Naturally



Series: The Potter of Thedas [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Mild Language, Sexual Humor, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 75,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3859942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Act_Naturally/pseuds/Act_Naturally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has tried to break Harry before. Some days, at his most lucid, he wonders if it succeeded. Either way, he doesn't intend to take it lying down, but from Templars to demons, the trouble keeps coming. Oh and the world might be ending, although that, for once, is someone else's problem.<br/>This is crossposted from Fanfiction, under the same title. It used to be called The Potter of Thedas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope's Calling

_*It is a strange book, unlike any other in Thedas. The content is certainly abnormal, but there is a whole series out there, somewhere. No, this was the first, and because of that it is different. The book is the deepest black and made from an undeterminable material. Certainly, it is far too rigid and glossy to be leather or cloth, but it is of obvious quality. The unnaturally thin pages feel more like leaves as the reader gently thumbs through them. They pass incomprehensible notes, rough charts and graphs. Much of it cannot be read. The runes are unfamiliar, perhaps another language or code. Doubtlessly, those runes hide the more important research, but that isn’t what the reader is looking for. The reader reaches the point where the foreign runes and tables abruptly stop and a steady stream of tightly-packed words takes over. In places it is rushed, erratic and hard to read. But they try anyway, for better or for worse.*_

**Day 14 – Afternoon, Dalish camp**

Note: a couple _long_ days behind me, no sign of anything but _long_ days ahead.

I get that a lot. Well, every now and then. 

It’s a relief to write it down. Any longer with this contained in my head and I may have damaged something. It probably would’ve come down to fire, and that really isn’t a good idea around this much foliage density.

Speaking of… fourteen(?) days ago may have done something colossally stupid. Actually, that I did something isn't under question, and that it was probably inadvisable goes without saying – it's whether I'm going to regret it that has yet to be determined.

Right, to begins. I haven’t done that yet, have I? I can’t recall.

This is a mess. Merlin, even _I_ don’t understand half of what I’m writing, which doesn’t exactly surprise me. It’s a bloody hurricane up here.

It’s just my luck that I ended up some place without basic headache cures.

I should explain, regardless of whether or not I already have. One can never have too many explanations. It may help me to give my thoughts some semblance of order.

I woke up with a killer hangover, so I was hardly astounded to find myself horizontal and contorted into a supremely uncomfortable position. But I was still wearing pants, so the situation was, by default, not the worst that has ever come my way.   

What caught my attention was the smell of fresh air. I hadn't dealt with pleasant air in, well, it'd have to be about a century. The breeze was indeed very lovely, but more pressingly, there was a subtle undercurrent of power that was almost wilful in its own right. I didn’t recognise it at first; it was niggling just at the edge of my senses, but undeniably _there_.

Earth was grey and beautiful and to me it was empty. This place felt different; something inside me woke from a deep sleep, uncoiled and relaxed in the presence of that power, and I felt good in a way I’d _never_ been able to truly appreciate.

Which brings me nicely to the point I was trying to make. I had a killer hangover, and how refreshing that was! Some huge weight that had accumulated over the years was gone. My attempt at standing was unsuccessful, but the carpet of leaves gave a cushioned landing. If there were also sticks and rocks jabbing uncomfortably into my chest, well… that's superfluous.

To be clear: don’t know where I am, don’t know how I got here. Not all that concerned.

My memory of the days before my arrival is blurred. I was adding to my research notes on the Veil. I remembered opening the whisky, I can see where my notes start to get wobbly, and then… oh dear, I didn't, did I? I'd entertain such thoughts numerous times, sure…

Oh hell, it appears I may have gone through the Veil of Death.

That question of where just got significantly more vast. Like, from which forest to which dimension to which time period.

Well, at the very least that is one hypothesis confirmed: Veil of Death is a bit of a misnomer. Probably. Maybe for the average mortal it’d fulfil its title… but perhaps… could Sirius have come through here also, I–

I really must stop getting of track.

So I lay on the ground, scrabbling in the leaf litter, and a giant bowtruckle stomped on me. It bloody  _hurt_. It deserved the paralysis spell I cast on it. I was still unaccustomed to the energy dancing readily at my fingertips; I may have over done it slightly, but, well, trees aren’t meant to move anyway.

The shadows descended from the treetops and night fell in the forest after a few hours. It was tedious to stumble along as a human, but my animagus form had much less trouble. Immediately upon changing, things got simpler, smoother in my head, and I raced through the trees, revelling in stretching my legs as a stag after so long.

I didn't see any people. There was nothing to bother me, not even the wolves patrolling the area. They seemed curious but they didn’t close in. There were also angry rodents and large white deer with pairs of intertwined antlers. They were quite beautiful to behold, I admit I was a little jealous. My presence seemed to make them uneasy – a mark for their intelligence.

About a week was spent this way, running, eating occasionally, exploring the vast forest. I’m not entirely sure, I lost myself a little in the strange sensation of the area; in some places it almost feels like the Veil back home. At one point I imagined I could still hear the whispering voices, but when I concentrated there was nothing.

I met the Elder Tree as a deer, but it saw through me right away. It spoke in riddles and rhyme, everything had double meaning. It spun great tales of the forest, described both the blessed and horrible history it had witnessed. I suspect it is even older than I am, and far more mature, although it did like my dirty limericks.

The E.T. taught me that in this place, the Veil is a barrier between the world and the Fade. Because of the great many deaths in this forest, the Veil is weakened and has torn in some places, allowing spirits like E.T. to pass between realms more easily. Coincidental synthesis of terms? Doubtful.

I’m sure that explains how I, too, got in this particular stretch of the woods, but what does that make me then, I wonder?

Existential crises aside, by my count, thirteen days after my arrival, I found my first evidence that people existed in this place. Three women, two men, an elf, a giant and a dog. Reminds me of a joke I heard once.

I followed them and watched for a while as they cut their way through to wherever they were going. They ran into just about every potentially dangerous thing possible, the poor sods. Bears, wolves, trees, evil vaguely goblin-like creatures, and I think I saw a few zombies enter the fray at one point. They were gloriously effective with their blades, bows and magic. Magicians and muggles working together. Weird.

The next thing I knew, the dog picked up my scent, a woman in an improvised loincloth identified me as a shape-shifter, and I was being threatened at sword-point.

The leader was a thickset fellow with dark brown hair and a smooth tan. His broadsword was probably as tall as I was. I haven't been disembowelled before, but I have been stabbed. It was not pleasant and I’m not keen to broaden my horizons in that direction. I complied with his oh-so-gracious request to show my true face, but not because I was intimidated in any way.

Thankfully, they opted to talk first. Their language was the old form of English I’d grown up with. I was out of practice. "Good morning," I started nicely, widening my eyes innocently, because who said youth couldn’t be a tool?

"Why are you following us?"

"My name is Harry Potter. I’m lost. Haven’t seen people in ages. I just thought…"

For some reason, this made the leader role his eyes heavenward in apparent despair.

I got to my feet and dusted off my pants, mindful of the sword at my throat. Their eyes narrowed as they took in my strange clothes. The robes were a little eccentric, but you get over feeling self-conscious with age.

"So you decided to follow a party of armed travellers accompanied by a man in Templar armour?" said the blond man incredulously, gesturing to his armour.

"Templars?" I prompted, figuring that term, or at least the fancy dress, was meant to mean something to me.

"You  _are_  a mage."

"Magically inclined, yes."

"You should probably know that the Templars are an order that hunt mages outside the Circle," blondie mutter sarcastically.

"Oh." Sounded interesting.

" _'Oh'_ ," the cave-witch parroted, golden eyes narrowed, "How  _you_  managed to survive past infancy I will never guess."

I just shrugged. Some weapons had been lowered, evidently not deeming me a great threat. "Right, well, this may be too soon, but where am I? I asked the trees, but they couldn't give me much beyond 'big old woods."

The leader answered, "The Brecilian Forest."

As if that'd help me. "Country?"

"Ferelden," the red headed women answered slowly, exchanging one of Those Looks with her companions.

I scoured memories of history lessons… didn't ring a bell. "Ok, imagine I grew up under a rock."

Their expressions assured me that they had already. "Southern Thedas."

Dimension travel was looking more likely.

"Where are you from?" Red asked in a soft tone that belied my mental state. I fought to keep a straight face.

"My aunt and uncle raised me in with my cousin," I decided to keep my sob story between a mix of memories and necessary embellishments. Easier to remember that way. "The nearest settlement was a town called Whinging, I think, but I never went there. My family didn't tell me much about the world. They were afraid of magic. There were a few weird accidents, though of course I didn’t understand what was happening. I learnt magic, got away, and it hasn’t been my home since."

"You taught yourself? Truly?" The cave-witch sounded doubtful.

I nodded, "Oh yes, magic was all quite easy once I knew what it was."

"Enough. Let us move on," the giant turned away and trundled up the path.

The leader sighed exasperatedly, “Sten, we’ve talked about this!” and set off after him. I stood about uncertainly for a while, but as they drifted off, I followed.

I slowly folded myself into the group. I was welcome after I applied feather-light charms to all their packs, bar the giant's (he growled at me when I came too close).

Aedan Cousland and Alistair, the human men, are Grey Wardens aiming to stop the Blight. The two were satisfied when I didn’t hold this against them, and then flabbergasted when it became clear that the reason for this was because I knew nothing of anything.

Unflattering to be seen as a simple child: yes. Useful for getting answers: again, yes. Also: fun.

Cousland’s dog is a war hound, one of Ferelden's trademark Mabari. Morrigan is the scantily clad witch. Sten is a Qunari, a race of usually horned giants. Leliana, the red head, is a minstrel turned priest turned kickass archer, who was sent by the Maker's own guidance. Wynne is an elderly healer who decided to tag along with them after they rescued the Tower from a swathe of demons. More new places, religions, and races than you could shake a stick at.

Zevran, the elven Antivan Crow, was the latest edition; he was recruited to join the group not a week ago, after he failed to assassinate them. That was quite apparent in how he was treated, but he didn't seem to care, and he continued to lighten the mood and divert attention by flirting outrageously.

"So, Harry of the secluded walks of life. You have been on the run for how long?" he asked, falling into step beside me.

"Over six years," I answered after a moment, "Why?"

"I imagine you would not have had many chances to indulge in the pleasures of youth while travelling without female companionship. Or male companionship, perhaps that is what you prefer?" he practically purred.

I smiled, trying to keep it amiable instead of giving away the game, "Oh, on the contrary, just the other week I saw this doe, a splendid creature – you could not imagine the hindquarters on that animal. Lean and muscular, yet perfectly proportioned, it defies belief! Really, what was I to do? She was wild,  _carnal_ and –"

Alistair, within earshot, stumbled and walked into a tree. The sound was remarkable – like several dozen pots and pans bashed together.

Zevran stopped. Amber eyes narrowed suspiciously, "You are having me on."

I tried, really I did, but Alistair's face was too much. I cracked a grin, "Maybe."

"Rascal! You almost had me there, though, now I admit I am intrigued with the possibilities. Say, Morrigan–"

"Oh, dear Maker. Warden, there are two of them!" Alistair clanked loudly as he ran to get far ahead.

It was a fun day.

Ah, dinner is ready, prepared so graciously by the resident hag because the elves won’t feed us.

That sentence calls for elaboration. I’ll finish this another time.

…

**Day 15 – Morning, Dalish camp**

Right. Hag: Wynne. Stubborn elves: camp of Dalish. Up to speed? No, of course not.

The forest was being unhelpful and kept turning us around. The type of magic responsible was beyond my experience and defied my fiddling. It was uncommonly irritating.

At one point we got pretty far, but then we were beset by werewolves. There were many and they fought tactically, not like the mindless beasts I knew of.

Too bad I will likely have to wait for answers. Leliana was bitten in the attack. One snuck up behind her and took a chunk out of her shoulder. She should be fine if the Warden ends the curse, but it’s a nasty wound, and werewolf bites are notoriously resistant to healing. They now have a time limit for their ghost hunt. Really. Apparently it can be cured if the right beasty is killed. I certainly don't recall any sort of simplicity in lycanthropy. There must be more to it than that.

The party split. Leliana had to return to the Dalish camp, Wynne went to keep her as healthy as possible and Sten trundled along for protection. I was ordered to go, probably to separate me from Zevran.

I like the elf. Yes, he is an assassin. Proud of it, even. But the constant riddling kept the atmosphere light. You really notice his absence when you have to travel for a whole day with a semi-comatose musician, an old hag and a stoic warrior giant. But at least Sten is  _quiet_. Honestly, if I have to hear one more variation of 'you are an untrained disaster in the making', I think I will set. The forest. On. Fire.

I would’ve already, but I suspect she’d have a field day. I can feel my ears ringing in anticipation.

Solution: I took up my animagus form and trotted ahead until the blanketing leaves muted Wynne's nagging about illegal magic.

We got to the Dalish camp before sundown. The Keeper had left for the forest, but his apprentice allowed Leliana to be treated with the rest of the infected. The elf made a great show of how gracious we should feel, as if she was going out of her way to let the Wardens save her clan.

I had a look around a bit, tried to talk to the elves and learn about their culture, but the welcome was… frosty into the range of liquid nitrogen. So they don't like humans. Noted and ignored.

Well, it was ignored until I had a sword thrown at me. How was I supposed to know asking about their tattoos is akin to cross-cultural suicide? No one _tells_ _me_  these things.

Really, if Wynne has to talk, can't she at least make herself useful by mentioning these things  _before_  she has to stitch my arm back together, instead of prattling on about the demons that want to eat my soul.

_*The reader notices a side note in the margins: ‘Have heard much (too much) about these demons, must find out what they are. So far only sounds like a terminal magic disease, but doubt this is the case.’*_

The novelty has quite worn off by now, I need something new to occupy my mind. Maybe I will see if I can produce a dagger from somewhere and learn how to fight. It’s been a while since I pursued a new skill, and I usually excel at the physical ones. Whittling– now that was a disaster, but polo was a great choice of pastime.

Speaking of… perhaps if the elves removed the branches from their arses, they could be persuaded to play? It was made _stringently_ clear to me that they don't usually ride their deer things, but I think I can wear them down.

…

Then again, maybe not.

...

**Day 16 – Night, Dalish camp**

Wynne has taken it upon herself to 'correct my education'. She cornered me and played on my reluctance to attack a little old lady to get my compliance.

If she tries to tell me how connect with my magic again, I will dash my moral reservations entirely.

I picked up whatever she taught me without much difficulty because I have had _centuries_ of experience with similar things. If nothing else, it helped my claims of being a remarkable shape-shifting prodigy.

I hadn't used a staff before. That, at least, was something new I could play with. Of course, that was only when Wynne had her back turned, because a staff would be too powerful a weapon for a young man with no formal education.

Magic is just so easy here. Truly, like a breath of fresh air. At Hogwarts the magic was harder to grasp, somehow restricted, but here it is eager at my fingertips – with enough focus I don’t even need the spell or hand movements to shape the willpower.

Oh, there is a commotion at camp, lots of shouting. I can't rightly tell if the disruption is good or bad, but it sounds exciting.

…

**Day 20 – Lunch, a road in the forest**

So the infected people recovered. I was quite relieved to see the colour return to Leliana cheeks. But she was a little woozy. "For a moment, I think I felt the Maker watching over me. He lead me to the quest, guided me to the Warden, but it is comforting to think He might be observing still."

I still quite like her, even though I'm now quite sure she's a few fists short of a melee. She picked up on that. "You think I'm crazy."

"I never said that was a  _bad_  thing." I'm liberal with my opinions on the insane. My criticism would only be hypocritical.

I haven’t spent much time with her for a few days. I’ve been running. Running and hiding until the group returned.

Note for the curious: do not ask an elf to instruct you in Dalish dagger fighting unless prepared to have that elf try and shove a knife somewhere the sun doesn't shine, which you will only evade if you are sufficiently skilled in the art of legging it from psychotic females. Luckily, married life taught me something.

The Keeper died to protect his clan and end the werewolf curse, and the werewolves reverted to people who are now loose in the forest. The elves among them were welcomed back, the humans left to figure it out for themselves.

Oh, and it seems Morrigan ended up with a magic staff made of  _Elder wood_. That stupid stick gives me the tingles if I get too close. I am now determined to avoid Morrigan even more than I would usually. She keeps giving me funny looks, like she can't decide whether I would serve her dastardly purposes better if I was roasted or fried.

I tracked Aedan down after dinner last night. They are going to Redcliffe next for some Arl's army, via some towns for supplies and to the gauge the federal situation.

"Can I come with you?" I asked without preamble. Interesting things happened to them. I can’t think of a better way to sightsee the world.

Aedan's eyes were shadowed. "Wynne approached me earlier. She asked that we escort you to the Templars so that you can get safely to the Tower."

"The same Tower that was only recently relieved of its demon infestation?" I made face.

"That'd be the one," the man grimaced.

Whatever the Warden decides, I will not be going to some prison. I might study there, but after it's put back in one piece and the Templars are no longer so… twitchy. "You already have one apostate with you, what's another?"

"I trust that Morrigan's mother, as wacky as she may be, taught her about the dangers of demons. You had no instruction," he pointed out. Granted, I didn't know about demons, but I've gotten the basic demon tempting lecture twice already since we've been on the road. Now, if I do end up in the Fade (good luck to it if that be the case) I sincerely hope I'm not stupid enough to fall for someone promising the world without repercussions. At my age, that'd be embarrassing.

"But you have the old preacher travelling with you. I'm sure Wynne wouldn't hesitate to lecture me at every possible moment."

My arguments seemed to lessen his resolve some. "I'll speak to the others," Cousland decided. "You can travel with us for now, and if necessary the Templars in Redcliffe will give you safe passage over."

"Good enough," I smiled disarmingly, and flounced away. Upon spotting Alistair arguing with the dog over the best way to carry a pike, I changed trajectory and went to watch the show.

…

**Day 21 – Morning, a road someplace else**

The light rain woke me bright and early. It reminds me of old England. The seasons alternate between rainy and snowy.

I had to place a very effective water repelling ward above my paper, which was  _almost_  challenging without a wand. After all my muttering Alistair thinks I've started a cheese-demon cult. I  _may_  have led him on a bit but… guilty as charged.

Still, the storms are refreshingly random. I can’t bring myself to be irritated at unpredictability; they come from seemingly nowhere and can hang around for minutes or hours, but the land afterwards always smells alive.

‘Alive’ smells a lot like wet dog.

The novelty won't wear off quickly, especially because Wynne disapproves of my unnatural tolerance of miserable, freezing, torrential downpours.

It makes sleeping a chore, however, since there are only four tents. I transfigured a tarp to shelter Zevran and myself. The assassin is uncomfortable enough; they still bind his hands and tie him to a log all night. He just leers, jokes crudely and puts up with it. Either he's biding his time, in which case he's certainly  _taking_  his damn time, or he can't be such a bad guy if he doesn't contest that indignity for their peace of mind.

I wonder why they bother continuing the practice. I'm pretty sure that it only takes him a moment to loosen the knots. Maybe a little longer if they're Leliana's.

I should be wary of him, given his line of work, but I misplaced my self-preservation in 2069. If I've read the assassin correctly, Zevran is a survivor; assassinating his protectors would be daft move. Still, if anyone here could mislead me, it'd probably be him. He's dastardly cunning.

I wonder how long it will take him to work around the wards on this book. Leliana has tried already, poor girl. Her hair stayed frizzy for hours.

Let me know when you do, Zev, I'm a curious guy. I wonder if you’ll make it this far or if you’ll only get through the first entry and then proclaim me either mad or dangerous?

I do hope not. This way of life agrees with me. My legs are sore, and thanks to Wynne my ears are just about bleeding, but I haven't had such desire to  _just live_  in a long, long while.

…

**Day 21 – Night, a random roadside camping spot**

You would not  _believe_  how difficult it was to get this book out of my bag just now.

Packs are a hassle, especially when the days are long and a little bit dull, and cloth tends to induce unpredictable side effects with spells so playing with them is interesting.

Animating objects isn't easy; it requires a high level of concentration and control. It is harder than most magic mainly because there are no set spells, it is more of a learned skill that a vocabulary list. Even as I held the material in my fingers, I expected it to go at least little wrong. But the manageable kind of wrong. Maybe turn into a herring, at worst.

I didn’t _mean_ to make it sentient. If I had, I certainly wouldn’t have given it such a disagreeable personality. I had to threaten to pick it apart at the seams to get its attention. It doesn’t like me very much.

“That was weird,” I admitted. Probably not the vote of confidence they needed to hear.

Leliana was thrilled anyway. She named it Shmeebles, of all things. A _bag_.

I only found out later, when it came time to wrestle my book from it, that the bag preferred its name. It's either very uppity or conspiring against me. Wouldn't release my book until I said please. I gave in with as much dignity as could be gathered in short notice; far better to let them to cling to  _some_  hope that I know what I'm doing, after all.

**...**

**Day 22 – Night, camp**

Well, I'm still unbound. That’s a surprise. Morrigan confronted me about suspicions right in the middle of camp, and, you know what, it's probably easier to write it this way:

"Tis a strange thing. You are not so young in years as you seem, but neither are you possessed by something older." She prowled around me much like I imagine a tiger might've.

The gig was a bust. I drew myself up to my full (miserably short) height. She was still taller.

"I'm just older than I look," I hedged wearily. Morrigan's comments had drawn the whole crowd.

Then, as if marvelling over the weather, she said; "You are more than that. Death clings to you like a blanket."

How in Merlin's baggy underpants did she work that out? "More like a limpet." Swords were drawn. "Please don't cut off my head, that would be most uncomfortable."

"For you or for me?" The Warden wisely asked. See, that's why  _he's_  the leader.

I allowed a rue grin. "Me, mostly, but it depends on how well you handle emotional trauma. The sight usually drives people to therapy."

"Who are you, really? What are you doing here?" Wynne demanded, staff levelled threateningly.

"Harry Potter, wizard. Most of what I've told you already is downright truthful. I'm here because I am bored, not to spy or sabotage."

Leliana's fingers twitched on her bowstring. Such impatience. "You are omitting something."

I could have fought my way out if necessary, but that would've been arduous, and twisted word games and keeping track of lies annoys me. "Only several hundred years of my life. I lost count; it's depressing after a while."  _That_  floored them. It shouldn’t have been so amusing.

"You do yourself an injustice. With a lovely face like yours, you cannot be more than seventeen, surely?" tsked Zevran, sounding flippant, but amber eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

I shrugged, "The elves were immortal once. Surely the concept isn't too foreign?"

"You are not an elf, so why you?"

"My life is a cosmic conspiracy. Remember when you were a teenager? The mood swings, the constant drama that you perceived your life to be, your frequent stupidity and immaturity? Well, I am cursed to be a teenager  _forever_."

"That does it. Young man, you are going to the Tower. No, don't you dare contradict this Aedan, this boy is a perfect example of why some mages must be removed from society to avoid harming themselves," Old Hag interjected, her voice set in a preachy manner.

" _Young man?_  Fine, don't believe me, see if I care." The advantage of telling the unbelievable truth is that they usually don't press for more. Then, only immature insolence is necessary to affirm disbelief.

Aedan interrupted me before I could really get rolling, "How can you prove it?"

"How would you  _like_  me to prove it?" I find it hard to care one way or the other. I suppose I don’t want them to think ill of me, but they will, with good reason. 

"Let him throw himself at the Archdemon, test his immortality then," Sten interrupted.

Aedan rounded on the giant, "Hey,  _I_  recruit the lunatics."

"He is clearly insane, he fits your criteria. Let us move on."

I'm glad it didn't come to blows. They probably would have succeeded in hacking me to pieces, and they're really persistent, so the process would have repeated itself several times with increasing more creative methods until they accepted that they couldn't kill me.

I hope at least Shmeebles would've tried to avenge my suffering.

…

**Day 23 – Night, The Horse's Breath inn**

Last night sucked. I thought I'd put them firmly on the thought train that pegged me as being a little psycho, but in the way that is more likely to send me off hugging bunnies than dancing through entrains under the moon.

I wasn't as successful as I'd thought.

They tied me up for the night. To the assassin. They even gave him firm instructions to "deal" with me if I lost control.

Poor Zev. Gone was the casual companionship, instead there was an influx of suspicion and worry. I wouldn't like to be tied to a mad person either. The idea is about as appealing as being tied to a twitchy assassin.

It was a looong night.

It didn't get much better.

"Shmeebles! Where are you, you fruit basket?"

Yeah,  _that_  was my morning.

I eventually found that pest, but not before coaxing it out from where it was snuggling up to Alistair's pack.

The battle was only half won by the time I got it out in the open; I then had to get it on my back. It kept squirming, trying to get away, which was  _really_ disconcerting.

"I know I smell, you don't have to rub it in," I grumbled, causing Leliana to giggle and lighten the atmosphere somewhat.

All day, I made a point to act no differently than I'd been all trip. I annoyed Alistair, tried to get a response out of Sten and debated the necessity of learning Chantry laws with Wynne. They were… frosty around me, to say the least. Hours of determined normalcy later, they thawed slightly, reassured by my harmless nattering.

It really is innocent until proven guilty around this lot.

Leliana is the only one who speaks to me about my claims to immortality. If I didn't know any better, I'd think she wasn't just humouring me. Maybe she's crazier than I thought.

"I have been wondering something."

"Yeah? Lay it on me, then."

"Are you long lived, eternally young or unable to die?"

Now that would be a good philosophical discussion. "I am six-hundred-some years old and I haven't changed since I was seventeen so I assume I cannot physically age. Technically, I  _have_ died a few times."

"Oh? This should be good," the elf butted in.

"Quiet, Zev. You can poison me if you must, but painlessly if you please. I've drowned, had my soul kicked out, been bodily dismantled, been plain old stabbed – funny story, actually, I'll tell you that one later – oh, and I do  _not_  recommend being burnt alive."

I'm quite apathetic to my past, to most things, actually. It's probably unhealthy, but it doesn't feel like my story, I find it too hard to relate to now.

"Immortality sounds horrible! How did you get yourself into such a situation?" Oh Leliana, always sympathetic.

I didn't want to answer. That particular story is still painful, even after all this time. "Pace yourself. I can't tell you all my secrets at once. You'd grow bored of my stories and then who would I enchant with the good ol' days?"

My smile probably looked as fake as it felt.

...

**Day 25 – Night, under a tree**

As a group, we’re pretty conspicuous. Apostates, giants, war dogs, foreigners, and two Wardens that appeared on every wanted board in the towns we passed. Only Leliana, Zev, Cousland and the Mabari went within the borders. The rest of us remained outside. A bit of reconnaissance, resupplying, alley skirmishes, and we moved on.

It was making the Wardens jumpy. I don't blame them for being appalled at the wanted posters; the lack of quality and effort was simply astounding. And the bounty? Insulting. Loghain has got them pegged for betraying the King, enabling a foreign conspiracy and all but causing a Blight, but from the reward you'd think he doesn't really want their heads parted from their bodies all that badly.

I wonder what I would have to do to get one higher…

Now that's a dangerous train of thought. Must desist. Like, right now.

The Warden got another tent, at least. He seems to have forgiven Zevran for the whole attempted murder incident. It only took… ooh, about a month, by my count.

I explained the knifing incident to them. I could answer all Zev's gruesome questions – I remember exactly how it feels to have the cold steel pass between my ribs and to bleed out until the colours fade into black.

After that, he was more interested to hear about my supposed six-hundred-some years. He is either closer to believing, or he's intrigued despite himself and convinced that I'm a very good liar. I'm both, I'll have you know. Even for all my experience, my stories would be boring without some properly applied embellishments.

…

**Day 26 – Night, back of a barn**

Just did my first bit of serious fighting. Darkspawn exude some presence that's just pure malice; it's enough to rot the ground they stand on. And their teeth. But maybe that's less from the evil and more from their diet. Still, their teeth are dreadful.

These darkspawn were just the "little ones", though I don't know how that flies, because quite a few were over six feet tall. Still, even without ogres or emissaries, two score is nothing to laugh at.

The more warrior-like of our group charged in, swords literally blazing (note to self: must learn how to do that, win major points for presentation). I was told to hold back with Morrigan, Wynne and Leliana, but my long range arsenal is significantly less damaging than my in-your-face spells, so I took this as more of a suggestion than an order.

The Warden yelled at me about it. Almost got stabbed for it, too. Tacky, letting himself get distracted like that.

Without a wand I am forced to be more confrontational. Stunners, binders, disarming spells, even most jinxes just won't cut it – the energy just splutters out after a few metres and the adversary laughs in your face (don’t want that, their breath is foul). To get any sort of use out of those spells, I'd need to be touching them. And since those spells are the ones I'd use to stop things getting near me, it kind of defeats the purpose.

Luckily, medium range spells – incendio, impedimenta and diffindo – extent my reach, so I didn’t have to resort to calling the Wand to me. I also make a mean ice sculpture. Confringo and reducto can be useful, but if the thing I want to blow up is fleshy and right beside me, blasting curses are definitely a last resort. Do not want to be picking pieces of darkspawn out of my hair.

I charred some, sliced others, by the time we were finished, there was a small pile of brutally slashed and still smoking corpses and me in the centre of it, grinning a little scarily.

"So, I'm very good for someone that's been learning for only seventeen years, right?" I'm too old to be properly affected by awkward silences, but I inflict them like a boss.

Get this – Wynne disapproved. Maybe because my magic was effective in a way her professors didn't teach and her religious profiteers didn't sanction. The Warden yelled at me some more; I forget why.

No matter. Zevran has conceded my brilliance. As per out bet, he has to wash my dishes for the rest of the week.

Still. It occurred to me that I had weakened in my resolve to learn to wield blades. I may be immortal or the next worst thing, but I'm no masochist – getting hurt  _irks_  me. Such occurrences are much easier to avoid when one can intercept an attack with something other than one’s own flesh.

I'll see if I can wheedle dagger lessons out of Zev. He's sure to make me let him out of dishwashing duty. Bugger.

I should stop with the switching of topics, I get that. Blame the malady of your choice. Or the sugar; Leliana just gave me a cookie. I haven't had any in years, it's such a rush to the system. I don't know  _what_  she was thinking.

...

**Day 26 – Not much later**

Annnd Zevran is out of dishwashing duty. Can't be helped. He's looking very thrilled at the prospect of sparing with (read: thrashing) me. Currently, he's sitting by the fire, so the warm glow falls over the contours of his muscles just right, while sharpening a dagger. The whole effect is emphasised by the ominous glint in his eye.

He's practiced that look, I'd put money on that.

I get the impression he is not going to be a kind teacher. Well, they are fond of the idea that it's only fun if you get a scar out of it.

I do not scar easily anymore. What does that say about my prospects, I wonder?

...

**Still Day 26 – the world of pain**

The leather hilt was rough and felt warm in my grip – a grip that was apparently wrong, if we are to judge from the number of times the assassin corrected it.

I didn't get much warning – he was darting away one moment and swinging for my side in the next. My reflexes brought the short blade up in time, which was just as well, because his method of teaching involves a lot of learning from mistakes and accumulated injuries.

"Bueno! But move your feet, now brace, yes, flex your knees. You have danced? This is not so different."

The blow reminded me of how it felt when the nasty tree kicked me. The angle was awkward, and as a result my wrist nearly buckled. Zevran exploited this by wrenching his blade and my grip was easily broken. My dagger landed in the grass a meter away, and a swift kick sat me on my arse in the dirt.

Another student may have expected the teacher to stop then, allow them to get to their feet and give some pointers.

I've had nastier teachers, so I wasn’t surprised when the evil taskmaster kept coming, leaving me to deal as I could; roll, scramble, block. He was deadly fast, striking with the speed and finesse of a snake. After a desperate and brief grapple, I ended up kneeling with him looming over me, dagger poised a handbreadth away, only kept at bay by my trembling arms braced against his. He wouldn’t have stopped: we have a healer, anything short of mortal injury is fair game.

He grinned, showing an intimidating amount of gleaming teeth. "Oh, this will be most fun."

There was none of the usual humour in that smile. He was enjoying himself, for sure, but fighting and killing was something of a serious point. That smile was all shark.

"So how are you going to break this stalemate, hmm? The dirt is loose, it would be quite unwelcome in my eyes, I should imagine," he suggested mildly.

Except predictability is the most crippling weakness of all. Instead of trying to force against him (an exercise of utter futility) I slid my legs out from under me, drove his hands into the dirt and rolled backwards.

I didn't really get the drop on him – his fighting style was far too adaptable for that – but he seemed far more interested than mere seconds ago.

Summoning the dagger the brief distance, I managed to catch it without impaling myself _and_ meet his downward slash with my blade instead of my forearm. Bonus.

Muscle memory at a high level fades quickly, but if it is done enough, an echo is retained for a long, long time. My reactions were sluggish, my reading of his movement out of practice. But the very basics of duelling are still there, and they translate across reasonable well to this new demanding skillset.

This brought back memories – the thrill, the danger, how I'd missed it.

I grinned then, and it may have been a tad feral.

"You have done this before," the assassin accused, fending off a clumsy strike with careless ease. I still haven't got the stabbing motion right, it is a little different to brandishing a wand.

"Something similar, long ago."

We continued for much longer, until I was shaking from the exertion and Morrigan yelled at us to keep it down. Right now, I can barely hold my pen, let alone keep my eyes open. I feel good, clearer somehow.

Passing out sounds  _divine_.

...

**Day 27 – Afternoon, Redcliffe**

I'll be brief, seeing as I have been recruited to help deal with a mysterious monster infestation.

I ache all over, but it is the good, satisfying kind. I woke up with my muscles on fire, and then we had to walk through the morning to get to this accursed city. It doesn't smell as bad as Denerim in the way of manure, but there's this pungent undertone of rotting flesh.

Cousland is annoyed. He was muttering something earlier about how no one can wait until after he's gotten his treaty acknowledged to kill each other. It's terribly inconsiderate, I quite agree.

...

**Around day 28 – Lunch, on a lake**

A lot has changed in the last few days. I have many things to catch up on, the least of those being sleep. (FYI: brain begging for 10+ hours. For a start).

I can only guess what day it is, seeing as I'm on the receiving end of some shiny metal cold shoulders and no one will tell me how long I was unconscious. At least one day has passed since my last entry. I spent that day following Leliana around and helping to prepare the flimsy town for siege. We got to set some booby-traps and explore the results of a quasi-religious placebo effect on some knights.

If was fun, but then night fell, the nasties descended and it all gets a bit fuzzy.

The non-stop conveyor belt of flesh and bones was an… interesting experience, shall we say, but not something I want to repeat. Ever. Almost reminds me of the Monopoly Incident of 2013 when Ron's strategy got between Hermione and victory, and—ah, actually, let's not go there.

Anyway, I can honestly say that I have never seen a dog so excited as when those walking bones presented themselves for a mauling.

The monsters weren't zombies, it was quite obvious that someone/thing was pulling the proverbial strings. They were inferi, I could feel the malice emanating from the castle. Joke's on me for thinking I was rid of them.

I don't have to do much as the Master of Death. I don't ferry souls or chase down people who hide from or cheat death (if they're canny enough to extend their lives, good for them). Death is natural order; all things that begin will end, and that process cannot be reversed. I don't need to interfere, everyone dies eventually. Necromancers playing with souls, on the other hand… those I actively try to re-educate.

There are rules. Don't kick puppies, eat your greens, try not to cause a temporal flux on you day off – they're suggestions when it comes down to it; subjective depending on where society's moral compass points. Taunting theses boundaries is human nature, thank Merlin because that's how history –or my life– is made interesting.

And then there are Laws. Capital 'L'. There are lines you do not cross, some actions that are truly damnable. Souls are temperamental things and generally react badly to prodding of any kind, never mind that such tampering is akin to desecrating everything you hold innocent.

Playing with the dead? That's a big no.

A prevalent sense of  _wrongness_  settled deep in my gut, just as the monsters shambled into sight.

The souls in these men were chained to their bodies long after their time. They struggled, wailing in a way that only I could hear, tugging at my own soul and trying to use it to pull themselves free.

I hate inferi; they're just as bad as dementors, except I have to feel sorry for them.

Still, that's no excuse for being such a colossal idiot.

"Hold it!" I bellowed in my best she-Weasley voice. "Just  _what_  do you think you're doing?"

The nearest skeleton glanced at its sharpened crowbar.

"Not you! Demon, or whatever you are; the dead fall under  _my_  protection. If you have any sentience at all, you should know to clear out.  _Now_."

Utter silence. That annoyed me. "Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"

The demon spooked, the control slipped. Effective immediately, most crumpled –one going so far as to dramatically turn to dust– and the skeletons further away retreated to watch.

"And don't you forget it." I relaxed, satisfied that the feeling of wrongness had left my immediate surroundings.

I may have jumped a bit when Ser Perth ran into a hastily constructed proximity ward and bounced back off, hurtling those accusations of abomination. I'm beginning to suspect that I am going to get that a lot around here.

"He has a point." Aedan acceded, similarly ignoring the knight persistently trying to get through my wards. His attention was much more focused on me, his stance ready. "Only a deal with a demon could give you enough power to destroy so many at once."

" _I_  didn't destroy them." They overestimate my abilities, my conscience and the extent to which it reins in my creativity. If I _could_  I most certainly  _would_. "It was the Puppet Master –who we should be dealing with right now– did that when it ran off."

"So you say. But if you're not possessed,  _what_  have you done that would scare even a demon?"

Granted, that was probably a relevant question. And so many possible answers. I wouldn't have had enough time to even scratch the surface.

Not that I got the chance.

Sten moved in the corner of my eye. I'd been in his company long enough to know that my instinctive step back was a move in the direction of safety.

My few remaining dredges of sense also noted, having watched them all fight together, that Sten's blaring of "THREAT!" was used to draw attention for a reason, but in the height of the moment, the part of my head responsible for drawing important parallels was cowering behind instinct and my thinning wards.

I heard a sincere apology from the blond Warden, before something shifted in Alistair. It's easy to forget that the painfully young man, who can be coaxed into blushing with no more than a sentence and theatrically raised eyebrows, is a deadly warrior.

Something that had been buried surged out in a blue wave of power. Starving tendrils latched onto my magic and pulled. The next thing I knew, I was bereft of the energy that had been part of me since my birth.

"Sonofabitch!" Shock set in just before the pain. I was drained, empty, kind of terrified. Only then did my nerves scream.

My wards crumbled. I'm assuming this impressive bump and minor concussion is the result of a clonk via sword pommel, but I don't remember getting knocked out, and that at least is a small mercy.

Ugh, the whole thing is so stupid.

For Merlin's sake, I'm a grown man several times over! Complacent. Overconfident. Lazy. Isn't this running to a familiar tune? I should know better by now.

Snape was right; I really do have a tragic inability to learn from my mistakes. It's not as if I haven't had ample opportunity.

I hate it when I have to use 'Snape' and 'right' in that manner, it's a sure sign my life has hit a serious low.

But really…

I only met them a few weeks ago, I know they've never trusted me, and I never went to any effort to get them to even  _like_ me – more so the opposite.

Leliana might like my stories and my semi-sentient bag, Zevran may click with my awful sense of humour, the Wardens may well think that my value as a fighter outweighed my proficiency for aggravating all walks of life, but they're out to save the world. They're serious about this gig, they don't dance around Death like I do.

Aedan makes sacrifices and hard choices every day. I won't flatter myself by saying that handing me to the Templars was more of a sad obligation than an unpleasant speed bump in their road.

I am a dangerous, crazy mage, and who can blame them for  _that_  assessment? I could hurt people or hinder their goal, so I can understand why they decided that the Templars should put up with me.

Doesn't mean that I won't turn Alistair into a donkey if I see him again. In fact, I'm picturing it right now and the pre-emptive satisfaction has put me in a good enough mood to endure my ostentatious Templar escorts. There's half a dozen of them. I would say something haughty and prideful, but sadly I think it may be overkill. I could deal with one while I'm this drained. We're on a boat; it'd only require a strategically placed foot. The splash would probably clue the others in, unfortunately.

I don't like these guys. Decided that within minutes of meeting them. They call me "mage" like it's a curse, and they've hit me six times already this morning for no good reason. And twice more because I implied some very unkind things about Bucket-Head's mother, but that I at least deserved.

More than anything, I hate them because I'm vulnerable. I don't mean in the usual sense. The people I spent the last few centuries around could hurt me, kill me even. Fatal mistakes were not something to be sought out, but the consequences were never as drastic as the label suggests.

I expected the same this side of the Veil out of habit. No matter there are dwarves, oddly smart dogs, trees and other exciting new things to serve as a trivial break to the ceaseless monotony, there was still one constant: I am secure in my immortality, am I not?

I was a little dismissive of the Templars, and that was quite an  _epic_  misjudgement. Many things could temporarily hurt and kill me, but these helmed lightning rods can  _stop_  me. The moment I gather enough magic, they hit me with the blue stuff and I'm helpless in addition to being nauseous.

I thought I'd missed the thrill of true fear such as this. I'd forgotten how the ice that starts in the chest and spreads panic through your veins, how the blood pounds against your eyes and your head just screamed at you to  _do something_. Now that I do remember, suddenly the adrenalin rush has lost its appeal.

The Templars watch me obsessively. So far I've only gotten away with writing this because when they look over my shoulder they see botanical studies. I'll thank Fred and George personally the next time we chat. But the ruse will probably be up the moment they touch this thing, if they're as sensitive with their anti-magic as I'm beginning to suspect.

I do not need that on my plate; getting out of this mess is going to be enough trouble as it is, but add a couple entries about travelling across the Veil? They'd never leave me alone, I'd be lucky to see freedom again in the next few lifetimes.

I can't just stop writing – my drop into insanity will be inevitable if my thoughts are left bouncing around in my head too long.

The only thing worse than being confined in a tower by the likes of Fist-Happy and Bucket-Head is the idea of being confined eternally to the inside of my own demented mind. I joke about being crazy, but there's a difference between Luna-crazy and Voldemort-crazy, and the second is a possibility that terrifies me.

If it comes down to it, I'll risk carting around an incriminating book over going a week without it.

Once we're closer to the Tower I'll dump it. I'll be able to get access more paper there, even if I have to resort to encrypted messages in book margins or etchings in the walls.

Maybe I'll mail it to Zev. I know the charm, although I am lacking an owl. He'll break into it eventually, but until then it'll really bother him.

Eh, why not? He deserves a little torment, he's not my favourite person at the moment. There's got to be a bird around here someplace.

…

_*This book was harder for the reader to find. There's nothing remarkable about its appearance. Mercifully, it is easier to read. The writing is initially shaky, but it is clear that the author's thoughts are calmer.*_

**Day 32 – A Great Stinking Tower**

Right, I'm at the Tower. Like the new book? Back to that in a moment.

Once confined, the Templars were more inclined to chat (read: gloat) and I finally got some answers. I was unconscious for a day, the trip took two days on their stupid boat and I vested myself of my old book along the way. It was harder than anticipated, involving a gull, a semi-permanent sticking charm, and a stalking compulsion. Now it's Zevran's problem.

The Tower was made with the theme of doom and gloom set firmly in mind. Its dark architecture just oozes oppression. If the Templars have their way, I'll never get another look at it from the outside.

Inside it isn't much better, but maybe that's the clinging scraps of demon talking.

It's as gross as it sounds.

Knight-Commander Greagoir hates me, probably on principle, First-Enchanter Irving is disturbed, and both are concerned. I'm almost more of a pain than an asset. I haven't even really annoyed anyone yet but they've already made it  _quite_  clear that the only reason they haven't made an excuse to kill me is because too many mages died when the demons rampaged and they're short on manpower.

The cellars are the worst. They're musty and the rank smell of blood is still painfully fresh. The cells are bare but for a bucket of unmentionable things, and they didn't provide so much as a mattress.

They're "taking no chances" and I have an appointment with a "harrowing" in a couple hours that I really mustn't miss. Now, why would I want to go and avoid something so cheerily named? I'd neglect to show, but there's a concentrated suppressant ward around the bars. Can't even touch them, much less escape.

They tossed me a dress that makes Ron's Yule robes look fashionable and told me to get dressed, then stood around looking intimidating until I complied. I now have no ties to my world left. I can't really say how I feel about that.

I did get this book though. Irving had a minion run it down with a plea to do something constructive instead of trying to erode the masonry. They stole my pen, so I also have to re-learn how to write with a quill. I'd forgotten how annoying these were.

I can swear in ten languages, yet I can't think of a phrase strong enough to express how much I hate them right now.

...

**Day 33 – Morning, an unnecessarily bright room**

The Templars whammed me with another smite after a pretty pathetic dinner – it knocked me straight out with all the grace of a jack hammer. I gained some degree of consciousness in the Fade. It was unpleasantly similar to when I hopped through the Veil of Death and All Things Bad.

I've been tossing around a theory that I used the Fade as an honest-to-God wormhole to slingshot myself into this world. There's a lot of complicated physics involved there… in that it basically blurs those laws as you cross the speed of light and everything you know about reality turns to jelly. I was there, but I was only there for a moment. I was a physical entity in the same way that I wasn't. That confusing? Good, that sums it up perfectly.

I was in my room back at number 4, and that didn't feel as out-of-place as it should have. I know exactly what to blame: my memories, they felt more like a fading story than the reality I know them to be. Or should I say  _a_  reality. The living world is one, the Fade is another entirely and we really mustn't confuse them, they don't relate easily.

In the Fade, up can just as easily be down, gravity doesn't always apply, and colours you can see change into something you can taste or touch, all for no apparent reason. Understandably, my head finds comparing this sensory information to my past experience very difficult, so I think it shoved all memory into to a dusty corner to shut it up. It didn't help that a demon was playing with my emotions.

I got out of bed, took a second glance at the spiky pillar that held up the window. My Dream-Logic brain figured that it must have always been like that. So I went downstairs.

See, I didn't believe Wynne when she said it was difficult to focus, but I understand now it's hard to separate memories and fantasies when your whole brain is scrambled and every sense in your body is telling you that this is real, that, yes, black holes must be able to exist in shady corners because there's one right there, and what's supposed to be wrong with that again?

There was a niggling sense of mistrust and dubiousness to the way the rooms blurred around the edges, but I didn't catch onto the con until I made it to the kitchen and met my aunt.

Demons must have a way of tapping into our memories, but mine are so old and faded that… well… I'm certain that, while I like to imagine my aunt was rather horse-faced, she was never  _literally_  as such.

It was a real light bulb moment. Once the ball dropped, my brain could ignore my senses and I remembered myself properly. I literally saw through the façade of Private Drive's walls and into the boundless plains of the Fade beyond.

"That's a good effort," I managed to speak through my laughter. Eventually. "Her complexion is a little off. She was pastier than that."

'Petunia' sniffed daintily. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Potter."

"Oh come on, you're not fooling anyone. No need to be self-conscious, your real face can't be much uglier than that. I won't judge."

Suffice to say that I was wrong. It was red and twisted with spikes and facial features at random intervals. I think it was also smoking. Imagine a puppy after it's been in a blender and then set on fire; it was  _that_  appealing. I let loose my mouth to distract myself from the urge to shudder.

"I feel kinda bad here. You know my name, but I don't know what to call you."

"I am Rage." Some crevice around its shoulder moved as a mouth would. Not-Petunia's voice dropped about an octave lower than Vernon's ever had.

"Really? Is that what your parents called you or some kind of pseudonym you picked for yourself, 'cause it's a little cliché."

It growled. "Rage is my potential, and my identity. It defines me, just as I define it."

Well, what are you supposed to say to that? "So… we've reached the point in our relationship where I don't know what to do next. I'm not really sure why I've been sent here, you see."

Rage regarded me with something I may be correct in interpreting as curiosity. It sort of slithered around me, came to a decision, then dropped into a chair that appeared from nowhere, and propped its head up on a wickedly clawed fist. "I was summoned here, promised a young, untried mage."

"What?!" Let me think about it for a moment… yep, still can't believe those bastards stuck a demon in my head.

"You… are not the easy pickings I was assured. They said you would be persuadable, they lured me with  _lies_. I see you will not be taken advantage of." It sounded pretty pissed off about that. I figured that was all right; perhaps it'd haunt  _their_ nightmares instead of mine.

"Well, thanks for telling me. Good talk. If you could just show me the way out, I'll leave you to your venting."

"You do not understand. I  _am_  Rage,  _your_  Rage. This form is a reflection of what I feel is simmering inside you. Your emotions are ugly. Ugly and painful, but do not fear them. You have every right to be angry. They have wronged you, lied to you, hurt you, and they will not stop. I have met many mages in dreams; I know what your Tower is like. They have placed us both in prisons. You and I, we are the same. Almost. Unlike you, I harness my Rage, I could break out–"

"Let me stop you there," because I genuinely feared that if the evil monologue went on much longer, it'd really manage to rile me up and then I'd start to find it very compelling. "I expect this is the part where you'd like me to ask you for help, am I right? 'Course I am, silly question. Unfortunately for you, I know what I'm capable of. Thanks, but no thanks."

The demon's demeanour abruptly changed. It went from entreating and simmering resentment, to six feet of towering ferocity. It went as if to attack me, but thought better of it.

"I'll be back," Rage promised ominously, before vanishing into a swirl of purple Fade dust and taking off with the wind.

That's when I woke up, properly this time, with a raging headache in the middle of a ring of Templars.

I don't think I've ever had such a terrible hangover imposed on me. Hangovers are rarely worth the night's activities, and considering my night was absolutely no fun at all… well, I don't regret puking on the closest Templar's shiny boots. His disgust was very satisfying.

"Ugh," I managed. Eloquent. "F'cks sake. Whose idea was this?"

I rolled onto my back, shielding my eyes with a groan. The eerie, high arching ceiling was lit with green fire. I was on a stone bench, and if the deep-set aches were any indication, I'd been there for some time. Besides the Templars, two elderly mages sat slumped around a pedestal of glowing blue liquid. The whole thing screamed Freaky Ritual.

"What'd you guys do t' me? Who stuck a demon in my 'ead? I want 'im shot."

They ignored me. Knight Commander what's-his-face announced, with no small measure of disappointment; "You have passed your Harrowing. You are now a Circle Mage." And then they all clanked down the stairs, leaving me to put myself back together.

"You know," I informed the two mages sulkily, "in my last school we just had to try on a hat."

…

I have a cut on the inside of my elbow. I've been feeling a bit light headed but I thought that was just a result of the stupid Harrowing.

Turns out, after a panicked rant at Boss-Mage Irving, the Templars did take some of my blood. It's a requirement – they take a 'small' sample and ship it off to Denerim so they can use it to track you down if you ever get out.

My blood is something I do not want anywhere but in my veins, let alone in the wrong hands. There is a bottle of it already on the road. That chills me like nothing else. I can list several very nasty rituals and potions I definitely wouldn't want my blood added to, and this world might not be completely ignorant to those.

Irving didn't appreciate me blowing a hole in his desk. I now have extra lessons with the junior apprentices for control.

Damn it all.

They've moved me out of the dungeons now that they have their blood insurance contract. I have a room. There's no shortage of spares after the last demon rampage. It's got a lumpy bed in it, and a spare dress. It still smells of flambéed abomination.

…

**Day 34 – Dining hall**

I've only been here a day and the mouthy apprentices are already calling me The Sulk.

Not my fault. It's not exactly the easiest place to be cheerful. It's dreary. Cold, too. And we're not allowed to use magic outside of classes or research. There's no detention for breaking their multitude of rules – it's straight to the dungeons for the unlawful and unenlightened. Not that I've even had a chance yet. I've barely been allowed the slightest fizzle of magic since I've arrived. At this rate it'll be another life time before I work up enough magic to apparate out of here.

This place is how I imagine Hogwarts under Voldemort's tender hands: stripped bare of paintings, the passages sealed, the classes aimed to indoctrinate, the system designed to monitor more than teach. The suits of armour don't protect; they watch and threaten. They can't be expected to randomly burst into song, that's for sure. (Maybe something should be done about that.)

What's this? Some girl has emerged from the gossiping throngs and has gotten up the courage to sit next to me. They're made of stern stuff here. 'cuse me a moment.

Summary: her name is Solona Amell, and she's a grumpy kindred spirit. I get the feeling she's a little lonely. I guess her frank honesty and utter lack of social skills would put off some people, but I've met worse. I've probably  _been_  worse, for all that it matters.

She's young. Younger than I look. Just a teenager, really. But she's bruised as if she's just walked off a battlefield.

"Who did that?" I asked, once we were in the slightly more private hallways.

"Templars. You'll learn that some are more heavy handed than others. They've been keeping an eye on me since my friends were involved in blood magic. Jowan escaped, Alim was killed. I was left with a mess they didn't even trust me to tell me about."

"Blood magic, huh?" I said knowledgably, as if I knew. "Want to see some  _real_  magic?"

I flexed my fingers, felt a little tingle, figured I could manage a little mischief and get started on my revenge.

With a subtle wave, a Templar patrolling in the opposite direction found his boots stuck to the stone. He had time for a shout of surprise before he pitched forward and landed on his face with an enormous clang.

We hightailed it out of there.

…

"What's the world like?" Solona asked. I got the feeling she'd been working up to this point for a while.

I didn't see any point beating around. "You're looking for a way out." She didn't deny it. That was confirmation enough. "It's nasty out there. People cheat you and judge you. The trees, I've noticed, are particularly violent. The smell is atrocious, twittering birds are a pain, dog slobber is impossible to wash out. It's fucking perfect."

She sighed wistfully. "I don't remember any of it. The Templars brought me here when I was very young."

"You know this place, then? The system? Every scheduled event and meal? What magic the Templars are familiar with?" All information I needed, she probably already had. We could help each other.

She frowned, confused. "Magic they're familiar with? But they're familiar with  _all_  magic."

"Ah, my friend. Have you ever seen a raven haired beauty turn into an actual raven? Your Circle Tower doesn't know everything, and it tells you even less."

…

**Day 36 – Some time, A different hole**

I cannot believe I have to put up with this. My ego can't take much more, it's terribly injured already. Theatrics aren't my last line of defence, but admittedly I am scraping the bottom of my bag of tricks.

"Darling," I recovered from being pushed and gasped dramatically at the Templar as he closed the cell door behind me, "You never tell me you love me anymore!"

"Oh  _shut up_." Ok, note to self: Templars take their Chant of Light very seriously and do not like anyone who questions it. Guess I qualify as unenlightened now.

This cell might be bigger than my last one. It has 54 stones in the ceiling. I know this for certain because I've counted them four times. My last place only had 49, but maybe these rocks are smaller. Certainly feels that way. I can barely stretch out from one side to the other.

At least I'm not alone. They dragged me past another occupied cell on our way through. I wonder if he can hear me from here?

"You look like shit, mate," I start with an all-purpose friendly greeting.

The response is quiet, from a gravelling voice that probably hasn't been used in a while. "Oh? I don't get that a lot.  _I,_ at least, was born pretty."

I snorted. He's anything but pretty at the moment. I only got a brief glace, but here's the rundown: long mattered hair, rags for robes, hollow cheeks and pits beneath his eyes. Think: corpse.

"What are you here for?" I lay diagonally from corner to corner so I could straighten my legs properly, and examined at the ceiling for cracks. One… two…

"This time? I escaped. Apparently six times is too many to ignore and not enough for a medal. I've been in solitary for months. They forgot about me until just recently. I'm only here while they mop up the demons from around my cell." His voice cracked a little at the end and he trailed off in a coughing fit.

So, I have here someone who is an expert at getting out. Not too good at staying out, but I can build off that.

"They have solitary, here? Damn. Where're they keeping you?" It's handy to know. I'll probably earn myself a ticket before long.

"Eighth floor, the side with no windows. Say, do you have news? They won't tell me anything."

"Not much, I'm afraid. I'm new here. Just passing through. There was a rebellion. Abomination and demons tore the place apart. A Grey Warden cleared the nasties and stopped the leader before the Templars could annul the Tower."

"Maker's breath! I... Thank you for telling me." There was a pause. "So, I suppose I don't know you…"

"Harry. And your name is?"

"Anders."

"Anders, tell me, do they consider seven a lucky number here? Worthy of a medal, perhaps?"

…

**Day 40 – It's not so dark up here, just after dinner**

I'm settling into a routine. Not sure how I feel about that. This place is not something I'm particularly keen to get used to; the education is insulting, the Chantry agenda makes my skin crawl, the Templars are all sorts of mean. But my magic is creeping back. Judging by how much time has passed already, I think that in about three days my reserves will be deep enough to apparate out. I can put up with that.

Each day, we have a session in the Chantry before breakfast. I stand there with the newest inmates, tense and feeling uncomfortably like I'm being force-fed bullshit, every morning while we're made to recite the Chant of Light under the Templars' careful eyes and ears.

After the gruelling Session, I have two or three classes until dinner, and then study time until an annoyingly early curfew. I take classes with the apprentices, I study with Amell, and I try not to think too much about Anders. I only spoke to him for a few hours before he was whisked back to solitary, but he's left an impression on me. He reminds me of people I've known, and yet is completely unlike anyone I've ever met. And the expression on his face when the Templars came to take him away… you'd think they were about to march him to the gallows. There was a terrible, haunted and resigned terror in his eyes. I can't even imagine a whole year in the dark with no news, nothing to exercise the mind, no one to talk to.

How has he endured for so long?

…

I want more information on this Fade. I need to know exactly what it was that I did to get into this world. Unfortunately, the dream-verse is some sort of transitory realm with no equivalent on Earth, and the information in the Circle library is very effectively censored. I'll be lucky if I can find anything that's not about how giving into demons will eternally damn you, mages are dangerous, the Fade is unnatural, etc.

Only Chantry-sanctioned research is in there. That's so limited it's kind of scary. Want to learn about lyrium? That's censored, there's a page on its effects and associated sins, but that's it. Demons? Oh, there's a lot about those. Nothing of real value, but that's clearly asking too much.

I admit the Four Schools of magic are new. It's an interesting way to classify spells – very novel. I have a few issues with Primal; it'd be more effective to include more natural phenomenon, like light.

That's where Amell and I were, between the Creation and Primal isles, when they caught me.

"Harry! Can you show me a spell?"

Amell shot me a questioning look.

I was caught by a sudden desire to flee. "I couldn't possibly–"

My protests were steamrolled by their enthusiasm. "But you're a full  _mage_ , and you were an apostate, you must know  _heaps_ of spells!"

What's his name again? Derik? He's an advanced apprentice in my classes. He must have witnessed my perfect flame spell in the last lesson. Admittedly, it was very impressive, even the instructor was floored. But the whole point of showing off my manipulation of fire was to convince the First Enchanter that I don't need basic lessons, and that I will be perfectly fine –not to mention enjoying far more peace–  _away_  from the small children.

Derik brought his friends. There's four of them, two more boys and two girls, one of which is elven. They're all about nine years old. I am not equipped to deal with this.

I was bracing myself to crush their little hopes and dreams, but then the dark haired boy did something with his eyes; they went all shiny. It was a dirty trick.

I tried not to sigh. "Incendio."

"That's not the flame spell incantation," Amell hissed. I just shrugged.

A flame danced in my hand. It wasn't very difficult, just fiddly, to turn it into a bird and have it fly around, then a horse that pranced across the desk (carefully avoiding my half-finished essay for the Dullest Homework Task in Existence). They cheered in a way that only children can; like you have just single-handedly made this the most  _amazing_  day of their  _entire_ lives.

Of course, they wouldn't just leave it there.

"So pretty!"

"Can you teach me?"

"Another, another!" Shiny-Eyes shrieked gleefully.

What else could I have done? They were  _cute_. A couple big eyes, pleading and barely contained excitement, and I bend like a twig. I am such a sad, sad man; disarmed by a couple of adorably innocent children.

"Expecto patronum!"

Prongs is weaker than usual. I'm surprised I managed to summon him at all, but then again, I've always had an affinity for defensive magic, especially when I'm desperate.

The children love him, they're giggling and squealing. Prongs' joy is contagious, and their smiles are just so- Merlin, I'm such a sap. A spineless sap. I sicken myself. I'm going to need to dream about kicking puppies to balance this out.

Honestly, it's not as if I'm a nice person, I'm just–

Oh Merlin, I'm just an idiot, that's what.

…

It didn't take too long to ditch the kiddies – all of them, Amell included. I just had to fake exhaustion after the shiny deer routine. The hardest part was hiding my sudden excitement.

I shut myself in the dark and started Phase One.

It was slightly easier to call Prongs this time.

"Hello," I said softly, brushing my hand over his misty antlers, through that phantom warmth, "I need you to do something for me."

He bobbed his luminescent head. "Good boy. There's a wizard near here, his name is Anders. I need you to take him a message, and don't appear where anyone else can see you. Say: I'm still here, if you want to chat. Wait for his response, and tell me."

The stag nodded again, then nimbly leapt away. He burst into vapour just before he struck the wall.

The waiting was the worst part. I spent most of it berating myself for not thinking of it earlier, and the rest hoping that Anders wouldn't completely freak out. Before I could get too scathing with myself, Prongs materialised in front of me, and Anders' voice echoed.

"What the-? … Wait,  _Harry?!_  What is this, how is it possible?"

That's not really an answer, but I took it as a 'sure, continue' anyway.

"This is Prongs. He's a construct of positive emotion, and he'll carry messages."

Poof.

A moment later. "Remarkable. So he's a room brightener, a mood brightener, and a conversation brightener all at once?"

I muffled a snort, "Basically. Do you want the dry, theoretical details? I could be here all night explained the whats, the hows, and the whys about it all."

His next words were basically a sob. " _Please_. Would you believe I've even missed Enchanter Soren's boring lectures up here?"

…

**Day 41 – Breakfast, perilously close to my porridge**

It's breakfast time, and I'm falling asleep in it. It's an effect I was luckily able to pass off as lingering exhaustion from yesterday, so Amell didn't annoy me by digging for too much information. Too suspicious, that girl. At least she usually puts her distrust to good use by helping and shielding the younger children from this life. She values worldly innocence but has lost her own. Maybe that is why she appreciates it so much. She reminds me a bit of my Lily, except she's far too jaded.

I didn't sleep until dawn. Prongs is gone, but I'm really noticing the drain from last night.

I am  _such_  a sap. Honestly, the lengths I go to so one person doesn't have to spend their days alone in the dark.

I wish someone had done the same for me.

Tiring though it is, I think it might be good for me. I barely know this person, but he's latched onto me like I'm some sort of anchor, and I may have done the same to him. We're both a little crazy, but I interrupted and alleviated two waves of depression, and he let me know on several occasions when I was getting a little too hysterical. Balancing forces. Highly useful for the insane.

Ignore that. Exhaustion has turned me into a wonky philosopher.

If I'm not careful, I'm going to set my escape back. Maintaining spells doesn't require anywhere near as much energy as starting them, but it does require meticulous concentration, and that's draining of a different kind.

Good practice, though.

I have my first class in an hour. Nap time, me thinks.

…

Perpetually falling watermelon, orange bread that actually looks appetising – it could only be the Fade.

Rage, without any of the illusions, was leaning against a wheelbarrow, poking it curiously.

I was less than pleased. "You again."

"I did say I would return." For an embodiment of rage, it was acting very serene.

"I was hoping for another night of restful sleep." It didn't leave. " _Without_  you in it."

"Your body rests, your mind will soon, I will not take much of your time."

I groaned, "I'm not looking to become an abomination any time soon."

"Pity," it sighed, "But that is not my purpose here. I seek only to apologise."

Is this some kind of good cop, bad cop act? Does that even work if you use the opposite sides of an apparently split personality? Well, I refuse to fall for it.

Sarcasm was my chosen shield. "Out of the goodness of your heart, I'm sure."

"And what would you know of the residents of this realm, or their motivation? Very little. But you hunger to know more, I can tell."

"Your point?"

"I offer you knowledge as my repentance. I ask for nothing in return."

Too good to be true. "Nothing but my time and my company, right? So let's make that my first question: what do you stand to get out of it?"

"I only sate my curiosity. It isn't often that something changes in this realm."

I glanced pointedly at the wheelbarrow that had turned into a welsh corgi. "Things change all the time."

Rage hissed. I think my ignorance offends it. "Everything is transitory, all the time, but nothing changes. You understand very little indeed."

Touchy.

"Then enlighten me. Start with lyrium and its connection to the Fade."

"All the lyrium you see here also exists as ore in your world. One can use it here, or there, the effects are the same. If used properly, it grants a stronger connection to other realm, and with it, more power." Rage waved a hand in a violent slashing motion. "Rest easy."

The dream turned black, and I did.

…

Sneaking into the First Enchanters office was much harder than I'd anticipated. I didn't get spotted; being Master of the Hallows has some perks, one of the most useful is on-call invisibility cloak, but I still didn't make any progress for hours.

I'm not sure what his security system is made of, and that's the problem. The first and most important step to counteracting spells or runes or whatever, is figuring out whether the problem was caused by a spell/rune/alternative doohickie.

I eventually just summoned the bolts out to the hinges, set up my own wards to let me know if anyone came close, and applied brute force. Not very refined, but it left me free to browse his book collection. There were only a couple shelves, but they were far more extensive than the general library.

I found what I was looking for in a book on Enchanting. Lyrium exists in both realms, increases potency or power of magic by strengthening the connection between the user and the opposite realm.

Rage actually told the truth. It's up to something.

…

**Day 41/2 – my room, I think midnight crossed over at some point**

"You know, Anders, I've met talking trees, twisted demons, and walking corpses, but I haven't encountered anything creepier than a small child reciting the Chantry's teachings."

His reply was fast coming, it's probably not something they're encouraged to talk freely about. "It's not  _that_  bad, surely."

"But it  _is_. What's the verse that comes up the most? The one about magic?"

"'Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. / Foul and corrupt are they / Who have taken His gift / And turned it against His children. / They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. / They shall find no rest in this world / Or beyond.'"

He sounded bitter, at least. That's a sign he isn't totally convinced about the validity of his lifelong persecution, unlike some people I know.

"I bet you knew that by heart before you even understood what the words meant. Am I right?"

"Sure. I thought 'foul' meant my mother's roast turkey for years. It confused things. But do explain your point, oh wise one."

"It's the problem. There's actually nothing too condemning with the verse, but the Chantry teaches children its interpretation and gets them repeating it to themselves before they're old enough to look at it a different way."

"I'm not following. It clearly says that mages should be subservient, never rule."

"And yet it took me, an outsider, ten minutes yesterday to understand where that logic came from. I think they're probably taking it too literally. Whoever actually wrote the Chant was intelligent, and very possibly a poet. Intelligent, charismatic people dislike simple, literal thinking. Come on, look at it more metaphorically."

Prongs didn't return for a while, but when he did, I was so proud.

"You mean it's more of a warning to mages about letting your magic control you and letting power go to your head."

Fighting years of indoctrination in an instant. Smart man.

"Exactly. But the Chantry seems to have taken this  _completely_  literally. They've distorted it from not letting magic rule over mages, to a mantra about not letting mages rule over others. And when 'Maleficar' comes to mean the same as 'blood-mage', then 'misuse of magic' is just a logic leap away from 'mind-control'. The end result is a very compelling argument for not letting mages hold power, because they can't be trusted not to abuse it, and everyone believes it. They think we can't be trusted to hold power over our own futures."

"And the part about how we are doomed to eternal damnation if we misbehave?" There's certainly interest in his voice now.

"That's another thing I don't understand. I distinctly remember an argument between Leliana and Wynne about whether Andtraste was a mage. I can't imagine why she'd condemn her own kind, were that so."

"Don't let the Templars hear you say that; that's what the Imperial Chantry teaches." Anders was quick to warn.

I'm probably doomed to be a heretic in this world. Still, I double-checked my muffling charms.

"This whole story has soaked in historical uncertainty for a thousand years; that's plenty long enough for the tale to have been accidently or purposefully changed many times. Some of it is probably true, or contains some element thereof, but even  _I_  know that several verses have been cut out recently. It makes me wonder how much of Andraste's work still exists. People write history, it's easy for people to change what's written. I don't think any God endorses this Circle. It's very clear that Andraste opposed slavery and harm."

"To be fair, this tower is an example of systematic abuse of control and oppression, but it's still a step away from slavery," Anders muttered sardonically.

I gave a noncommittal hum. "I do like one verse. 'All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands, / From the lowest slaves / To the highest kings.' Just remember that part. The moral in it is clear. Don't let them convince you otherwise, it doesn't matter what they claim, we aren't all monsters. We're still people; flaws and all. They won't be able to deny that forever."

"You're awfully confident about that. They've managed for a thousand years." There's still an underlying note of bitterness, but far more hope.

"I've seen it happen before. Authoritarian regimes are inherently unstable, as soon as a lot of people question the system, it collapses. Merlin, this conversation suddenly got heavy. What's your favourite colour?"

"Green. Who's this Merlin?"

"Long story. Pull up a seat, get comfortable. No rocks sticking into unfortunate places? Good. Merlin was the greatest mage, and none have come close to his power since. He lived in a time where mages were hunted, but he and his friend, the Good King Author, changed fortune for mages everywhere…"

What am I writing all this for?  _I_  know the story. My hand hurts. Stupid quills. Why is it that with the great tool of magic, comes a great lack of creativity and desire to make lives easier?

_* There are some sketches in the margins. It is fortunate that they are labelled, as it dispels any doubt about the characters' species and gender, which would otherwise be indistinguishable.*_

…

**Day 43 – night, the library**

I just led another study group in manipulating the finer aspects of Primal magic. Little Derik is getting the hang of it; he'll manage it once he learns how to focus his energy more precisely.

I've accidently become rather… attached to these people. Technically, I have enough strength now apparate out of here. I mean, it wouldn't be very stable or safe, but it'd hardly  _kill_  me to lose a limb or two. More pressingly, Amell's little fire birds still look like malformed fish, and Anders has three weeks left in solitary.

Who am I kidding? I can't leave on that note.

I was a teacher once, you know? That was after my own children left school and I got tired of being an auror. I don't know if it's my residual teacher or parent instincts that are to blame for not wanting these kids' gifts to be squandered. Either way, I'm clearly a lost cause.

…

Some Templars are tolerable. I once played cards with Collin the Minion and he didn't  _once_  refer to me by some insultingly vague personal pronoun, like 'it'. Most of them aren't as nice as Collin, or as horrible as Alfred, who likes to grate the self-value of small children over his toast for breakfast, but the average is definitely skewered towards Al.

We just had a very nasty encounter with a couple of them. Amell and I weren't even  _doing_  anything, not even talking. Just walking from the classroom to the library. Standard procedure. The tin man stuck out his foot in front of Amell and tried to trip her. Still standard procedure.

But this one was itching for a fight. Amell says they do that sometimes. They pick on the young or the small, because there is nothing anyone can do about it. Or maybe they do it because they know we could set them on fire, and they enjoy the thrill, or the consequences if we do.

In these conflicts there is no question of blame, we are guilty by existing. The word of a mage equates to nothing around here.

This Templar held us up for half an hour, and it ended with the assertion that we obviously weren't doing anything constructive and needed a lesson in humility, lest we fall to Pride. Apparently the Tranquil would show us to the mops.

I had to repeat 'do not punch the stupid man' like a mantra to rein in my temper. It wasn't very effective. I hate having to deal with small minds that haven't grown into their suits or their big words.

I was so annoyed, I forgot to ask Amell what Tranquil meant, so it was a very nasty shock once I got within sight of one.

Isn't it  _so not funny_  when you think you've seen the worst of depravity, then someone gets creative and proves you wrong?

The Tranquil man felt half dead. Half of him has been blocked by the lyrium branded into his head. All magic, all wonder and imagination is cut off and  _so_ hurt. His soul is crippled, shying and cowering away from the constant agony in his mind. And he just stands there placidly and asks how he can serve.

A functioning, human drone.

His soul is screaming so loudly it's a wonder that no one else can hear it. Instead, they looked at me as I puked all over the floor as if I was the strange one.

That is a fate worse than dementors, and much worse than death.

Amell once asked if I could help the mages here. I'd put it out of my mind, but I can't anymore, if this is what hangs over their heads.

I won't be able to convince myself to go anywhere until I've taught at least one troublemaker how to apparate, and done all I can to encourage them to spread it around.

I have to continue my mischief somehow. It's my sworn duty as a second generation Marauder.

Ok, now I'm just making bad excuses.

…

**Day 44 – first class, too early**

I got a visitor last night.

"Again, Rage? Really."

It glowered at me. "You beckoned. You have been so very angry."

"Oh." I took a proper look at it. Paused. Looked back. The demon's red skin was torn and burning red around the edges of numerous slashes. A sickly black ichor and bled out. "Were you in the middle of something?"

Hiss. "We are not the sole inhabitants of this realm."

"Rough neighbourhood, huh?" I said knowingly.

I decided to take that heated snarl as a confirmation.

"I'll keep that in mind when I explore." I scoured the dreamscape for some sort of objective. Shadowing chasm, freaky purple swirl, or suspicious corner. The raw Fade is lacking in variety; it's all depressing.

Rage gave me an unimpressed look.

"Yeah, I was thinking about going near that infamous Black City. I mean, I wouldn't be too keen on going inside. It's got a collection of rumours that puts every other haunted house to shame. Did you know that apparently it used to be the Maker's, but some mages tainted it with their sin and ambition, thus bringing the dark spawn, the Blights and the Maker's contempt down on us all? I'm a sceptic, but it still gives me the chills."

"You won't."

It sounds so aggressive all the time, I couldn't possible tell whether it was threatening or not. "Come again?"

"It is set into the horizon. The 'time and space' you are familiar with has no relevance here. You will not reach it. I tire of you."

Without preamble, Rage did his purple swirl vanishing trick, and I was alone. I did what many teenage boys would if left to their own devices. I tested if the Fade was flammable.

It was educational. For the curious; trying to set a giant statue on fire in the Fade is no more effective than anywhere else. Also, magic works  _very_  strangely there. It's temperamental and inclined to assume a mind of its own. My incantations hardly ever did their intended job. Pure Wandless magic is more effective, but still not as reliable as Thedas spells. I wonder why. It's worthy of attempting to study, though I'll have to carry that out myself if I want to accumulate any meaningful information.

…

**Day 64 – night, my room**

Well, it's been awhile. I've been really busy. It's nice to have an objective again. I've noticed a difference, just from the number of times a day my friends have to tell me I'm getting out of hand. Just a couple weeks ago, I couldn't go without writing for too long, or the thoughts bounced noisily around my head. Now, I don't even feel the need, but I kind of missed it.

My kids (yes, that's right,  _my_  kids. I've quasi-adopted the little hellions as the little siblings I never had) have progressed really well in everything I tried to teach them. It's hard to meet together, the Templars are very twitchy about organised gatherings; it could lead to unrest. They'd be even unhappier if they knew what I'd been teaching them in our study lessons; my kids now know stunners, disarming spells, more powerful shields. Amell is the only one who can apparate at this point. That was the most important checkpoint, I was quite worried for a while that they wouldn't manage it.

The problem is, they can't just throw all their magic behind disapparition and hope it whisks them away. Apparition simply requires too much power; finesse works far more effectively, and brute force falls short. Of course, once I worked that out, I 'only' had to teach them how to use their magic like I do. Sweat and pain and tears, I tell you.

I've spoken to Anders every day. There was once, early on, a day where I let Prongs dissolve for too long. The next night, Anders was inconsolable, doubting reality and his sanity. I never did that to him again. After that I made sure to send Prongs in short but frequent bursts. We wouldn't always talk, sometimes Prongs just kept him company, but most days I'd step aside between classes or meals to exchange some snarky comments. I'm just surprised we haven't run out of things to chat about yet; we've covered everything from pets to the weather, and I've told more stories than I thought I remembered. He's told stories too, and at this point I probably know more about his childhood than I recall from my own.

And that marks the end of the good news.

I may have a little demon problem. The first time I met Rage, it was the Circle's fault; the second time was because the demon 'wanted to apologise'; and the third was when my anger allegedly called it. The fourth time, I dismissed all chance and decided that it was definitely arranging this for some reason, but when I confronted it, Rage offered to take over my body and turn me into an abomination. I thought that would be the last I saw of it, but a week later Rage came to chat again. I've seen the demon five times since. Sometimes it goes undercover, and it always throws a tantrum when I see through its illusions, but if it hangs around after, it's more inclined to answer my questions. That's become a kind of game. Rage is canny, interesting, and it's is learning not to bother making stupid offers.

Rage doesn't strike me as very bright. They say Rage demons are the least dangerous; I'm beginning to see why. Still, I  _have_ learnt my lesson; I won't let myself underestimate it like I did the Templars. I can see that it's trying to manipulate me; on the last memorable occasion it suggested that I sacrifice my phylactery in Rage's name. But are these transparent efforts the extent of its manipulations? I couldn't possible know for sure. Hence the caution.

As freaky as Rage occasionally is, the oppression here still frightens me more.

You do not know what it is like. Or maybe you do, in which case I sympathise. It is hard to appreciate until you experience it. Imagine:

You cannot question them, because they are authority, while you are just another mage. You are not special; an apprentice, or an initiate, or an enchanter, not an individual, and no matter the unit you are in, you are a problem. They quote the Maker himself, they tell you the history of what your kind has done. You believe it because that is the only truth you know.

Fear is their tool. They are physically stronger, they have weapons and they can neutralise yours. You have all experienced some punishment, and you know it hurts. But there is  _always_  something worse – prison, solitude, the Rite of Tranquillity. You do not want to push them that far.

You are confined. If you upset them, if you make them look for you (and you do  _not_  want them to single you out from the group) then there is nowhere you can go that they won't find you.

The tasks they give you are menial and repetitive, but they put pressure on you and you have jumped through their hoops before you've had a chance to think. They give orders and you follow them because you know they could check. You are encouraged to work independently and close friendships, let alone relationships, are discouraged and closely monitored. You do not want to draw attention to yourself, so you do not form trusting friendships (and since you are alone you aware that you cannot fight together).

You never know when someone could be watching you. There is no talk of rebellion, no one dares to question the system in case the person they're ranting to wants to curry favour with the Templars. You do not know who, if anyone, shares your opinion. When you feel alone, you silence yourself, because these thoughts are dangerous.

You fall into their nice little mould because there is nothing else you can do, and then they have you just where they want you. You are trapped in conformity because that is what everyone else does; they follow the rules, and they are safer.

Your minders ask you for gratitude, after they tell you that you deserve worse than their mercy. Deep down you know this is a travesty of mercy, but some days you  _are_  thankful, because you know they could hurt you and no one would care.

You have known this your entire life.

So in the end, you do not rebel. You do not question. You are grateful that it hurts, because if it hurts you know you are alive.

…

 

**Day 65 – lunch time, and nice little spot in an old classroom**

I could have left days ago. Amell can apparate, and I'm confident she can teach others. Derik and co. will be fine under her guidance, whether inside or outside this tower.

Anders doesn't need my support anymore. He gets out today. He could manage on his own, like he has had to for years. I don't need to stay to see him released, but if I'm honest, that's the final tie that's holding me here.

I can apparate safely. More importantly, I could take someone with me.

Probably.

…

**Later, my room**

I got sentimental walking around this place for the last time. It sucks, but there have been good moments. I passed a statue that reminded me of something Derik did weeks ago; I've been trying to write it in a way that does the sweet kid justice, but it just isn't possible. I'll say it like it is.

The light pitter-patter gave him away. Derik all but skidded around the corner, his robes on haphazardly, and his shoes had been forgotten entirely.

"Found you!"

From past experience, when he sought me out, the rest of my productive evening was mysteriously consumed. To my surprise, the prospect didn't bother me at all. "Where's the fire?"

"I–Huh?" He interrupted himself, almost choking on the turn around.

"You were running so fast, I can only assume you've singed some unfortunate Templar's panties," I exaggeratedly raised an eyebrow, which sent him into peals of giggles. I tried not to grin. "Well?"

"I made you something."

The boy dug something out of his pocket and thrust it at me. It was a glass snow flake; the glass was flawed had been cooled too quickly, full as it was with strange seams and air bubbles. The light danced off it beautifully.

I examined it under his nervous scrutiny. There was definitely no way to hold back my smile. "It's wonderful, Derik, thank you."

He blushed, beamed, stammered an excuse and ran away. He should be illegal; it's practically  _unholy_  how adorable that kid is.

…

It's not that I don't feel sorry for these mages – I do, I've lived through tyrannical rule, I  _know_  how bad it can get. But there is nothing I can do for them.

This enemy is not something that can be stopped by one man, no matter how powerful. I could pull the Tower apart brick by brick, conquer the world with selective application of shrinking charms, or kill every Templar in Ferelden, with a bit (okay, a lot) of time and effort. I am immortal, after all. And it would make things worse.

The mages need to help themselves. If I killed Templars, the bigger my body count, the more shit I'd bring down on the defenceless mages here, like Derik. The Chantry and Templars would be up in arms, public support would hit a frosty sub-zero, and the mages would be dead.

Compassion is a trap. I feel guilty, but staying would be pointless. I can't help everyone. At least my friends can run if they need to.

That sounds like I'm trying to convince myself. I'm not. Really. I can't promise I won't look back, but I'm definitely leaving. This is the best course of action, for everyone.

…

**Even later, my room**

Anders showed up earlier than I expected. He looked  _almost_  as bad at the last time I'd seen him, except he was also panting and shaking as if he'd run the length of the Tower.

"You were talking to me, right? I didn't go mad and hallucinate the chatty silver deer?" he hurled out in one unsteady breath.

"You're no madder than I am." Not certain how reassuring that is.

He ran a hand through his ratty hair, and sighed. "Then I can't thank you enough. You pulled me out of a bad place. After the abominations ransacked the tower, and I knew nothing… Well, I'm fortunate to have met you when I did."

I'm sure he would've managed. He's the type of person that bounces back from whatever the world throws at them – a little more fractured – but alive.

To confirm to myself that I wasn't a complete marshmallow, I felt the need to say, "You still look like shit. First bathe, then trim that mop you erroneously call hair."

I locked him in the communal bathroom. It's a room with a couple buckets in it; you'd think magic could have developed some sort of plumbing, but, alas, the aguamenti charm I shot at him on my way out was far more effective. He shrieked like a little girl. Music to my ears.

…

**Much later**

Everything was going well, basically as scripted, until I mentioned apparition.

"There is magic, where I come from, that can take me from this room to some other place in an instant."

"Don't joke about magic like that!" He snapped. Anger, irritation, hope; he was a regular messed up cocktail. "You… you're not joking, are you? But that would change everything! If you could stay ahead of them, or just get away when they stumble upon you, it– it might work."

He looked a bit doubtful. I took slight offence. "It  _will_  work, you'll see."

He flinched. "You're going?"

I suddenly felt inexplicable trepidation.

"That was always the plan. I told you when we met that I was just passing though. I suppose this is either goodbye, or if you want, I can take you with me," I offered hopefully.

He paled. With his already white skin, this gave him an ashen look. "I'm on my sixth warning," he whispered. "They will make me Tranquil if I break any more rules. I– no. No, I can't go with you."

And, well, that was that.

I was taken aback. Only have myself to blame. People tend to so rarely surprise me, I forget that they can.

I tried to hide my disappointment. Tried and failed. "That's understandable –" Well, it is  _now_ , after I've thought about it. "– I certainly wouldn't be too keen to get back into their bad books so soon after regaining freedom." Albeit using a very limited interpretation of the word 'freedom', there.

I'd taken for granted that he would be keen to leave again, I was totally unprepared to have my hopes dashed. He's in a very bad place, mentally. He's just spent almost an entire year alone; isolation of that kind is underestimated, but it's essentially torture. He'll be  _lucky_  if all he takes away from the experience is PTSD.

There is a  _reason_  the Templars use solitary to stop repeat offenders.

"When are you leaving?" Anders interrupted my thoughts and the ever growing awkward silence.

I floundered for a moment, searching for solid ground between us. Our relationship has completely changed. Face to face, neither of us knows where we stand. "Tomorrow." I eventually managed.

It's like speaking to someone for the first time. Real-Anders is almost a stranger, but at the same time I know everything about him. That works both ways; he knows me too. We've each said things that we wouldn't normally.

It will take us time to resettle into a dynamic, but that's time we now don't have.

"Even if they catch me, I won't tell them who stole their pudding before the Feastday festival."

My promise didn't have much to do with pudding at all: he is my friend, I will do what I can to protect him. He smiled, and gripped my arm in thanks. His skin was rough, over hands that were large and strong.

There is a long way to go, but that was the first step down the right track.

…

**Day 66 – Lunch, an over glorified closet**

There wasn't much space to go around. Between the stacked crates, Anders, Amell, Derik and I crammed into what little was left.

There was dissent in the ranks at first. "Anders?" Amell was surprised when we walked in together, "How do you know Harry?"

"We talked once or twice," he hedged lightly, "Shared a cellblock, started a club. You understand. Actually– no, you wouldn't. I seem to recall you were pretty friendly with one Templar, what was his name again?"

The crackling distrust between those two was interrupted by a frantic nine year old. "Do you  _have_  to go?" He latched onto my waist and squeezed. He didn't cry, but he didn't really understand the concept of possibly never seeing anyone again. Goodbye just meant see you later.

The other two didn't have that cold comfort.

Amell was fully convinced I'd manage to get myself killed or caught in a few days.

" _Try_  not to provoke anyone. I don't care how amusing their reactions; if they have sharp pointy things, leave them alone–" I read between the lines exasperation.

"I'm going to miss you, too," I interrupted her last minute warnings with a big hug. She squirmed indignantly at the interruption. "Keep looking out for everyone. You know what to teach these guys. I need to know you can all get out if things go to hell, yeah?"

Anders was more hopeful for my chances, and more conflicted over them. "Take care, and good luck. If the Templars put you in a position where you can't escape, don't fight them. As soon as you do, they'll take you far more seriously, and they'll get revenge."

"Got it," I nodded seriously.

The atmosphere got heavier. I smiled, and it came out sadder than I intended. "I'll keep in touch."

He pulled me into a hug. I could feel his ribs, but the embrace was warm and solid. "Thank you," he whispered into my hair.

I buried my face in his chest. Not because my eyes were prickling traitorously – no, the blame falls  _entirely_  on my tragically short height. There was clearly nowhere else I could go. Obviously.

I was right before, when I said that Anders anchored me. It hit me then: I was  _leaving_  that company. I'd be alone again with no protection from myself. I swallowed around the lump in my throat and forced myself to let go.

If compassion is a trap, then affection is a full DIY straightjacket and shackles kit.

I  _had_  to go. That hasn't changed. There are things that aren't possible under constant watch and threat.

In the end, my escape wasn't all that epic. One look back, a quiet crack, and the next moment I was on a deserted stretch of road near Denerim. Most of me. I'm missing a couple fingernails.

There was no celebration, and not much relief. I escaped, and now I can't control what happens to the friends I left behind.

Damn, this hurts.

And I'm not talking about holding a quill without fingernails.

…

**Day 67 – Morning, south west of the middle of nowhere**

I need to establish some aims here, if not just to distract myself. First and foremost, I need to get my phylactery out of Templar hands. So long as they have it, they have massive leverage and could potentially do all sorts of voodoo. Also, I need money and food before I run out. A method to avoid the Templars wouldn't go astray either; if I stay in Denerim, they're eventually going to figure something out, and they may even get ahead of me.

I can't set up a permanent roost anywhere while they're tacking my movement. I'll avoid Denerim at first. Maybe make some random appearances around the Bannorn, drop in on Redcliffe every now and then, spend the odd night in the Brecilian Forest. Keep things interesting.

…

**After an unsatisfying dinner, a less inhabited middle of nowhere**

Well, they sure showed up quicker than I expected.

It's too damn early for this. These Templars aren't sloppy, unfortunately. If they were, maybe I'd be able to go more than a day without their presence interrupting my life. They appear to have a very effective network of homing pigeons connecting the Templar barracks' present in each town.

They obviously let Denerim know that they'd have need of my phylactery. I imagine they were surprised to see that I'd gotten so far from the Tower so quickly. A desire to avoid the inevitable awkward questioning has given me even more incentive to stay out of their clutches.

Unfortunately, blood spells are all but impossible to thwart; not whilst there's corresponding blood in my veins, and I'm not keen to get rid of that just yet. I can only stay ahead of them, apparating whenever they get too close, and lay wards to let me know when they're entering my person space bubble. I'd really rather keep them at arm's length. They have sharp, pointy swords and their smites put me off my food. I'd probably be desperate enough to scamper up a tree, and my ego isn't ready to deal with the indignity just yet.

I don't know how accurate their tracking is. If it's sensitive, they might be able to tell that I can vanish from one spot and immediately appear somewhere else. If they catch me again, they're going to try and counter that – honestly, I really can't afford to lose the advantage. Or lay suspicion on the rest of the Tower. Not that I'm thinking about them overtly often, not at all. (They're not defenceless… except in the many, many ways that they totally are.)

Damn, I miss those kids – my little brothers and sisters. And Anders. I wish he was here with me, not back in that stupid stone cage. Now I'm acting like a brat; didn't get my way and it came as a surprise that other people still have opinions.

It's just… harder to remember he's real with so much distance in the way. I've done enough talking to myself throughout the years. The loneliness hurts after a while. At first, the lack of response is always disappointing when my jokes fall flat on thin air. But I'll start answering myself too, eventually, just for a shallow reminder of what real companionship can be like. That there – that's an issue. It's severely underlined in 'Descending into Insanity for Dummies' as something even whack jobs try to avoid in public.

I'm determined not to get to that point again, but all I've got to talk to is a patronus I could fail to cast, occasionally a Rage demon, and dead people. There's only so much I can do. I've never had a particularly healthy mind; I grew up with zero self-esteem and a hero complex that occasionally crossed into something more twisted and suicidal. Over my long life I've collected several instability issues and exercised an unhealthy on-and-off relationship with depression.

I might descend to that point again. I won't be able to summon a patronus, and there will be no annoying apprentices to remind me of reality. Rage will be all I have left, and if the demon has got a vested interest in my wellbeing that is a point of concern, not comfort.

…

**Day 70 – Midnight, somewhere called Honnleath**

Rage has no respect for boundaries. It seemed amused at the restraining orders I hung around the Fade space. Altogether, I think it's just safer to keep it angry with me. It's far too creepy when it attempts any happier emotion.

I did not sign up for this. Demons are so annoying and unnecessary. Why, exactly, does this place need embodiments of nasty virtues running around under their own limited sentience? My world survived just fine without wizard popping up as abominations. Unless we were wrong about Malfoy…

No matter.

More often than not, Rage is turning up injured, but this time was particularly bad. For ages the only answer as to why was a grumble/growl/hiss, but it was more hurt than usual, maybe that's why it was looser with words.

"You attract trouble. They must stay away from this place. It is mine."

The crash course of demon culture didn't mention that they fought amongst themselves, and my practical experience is limited entirely to my interactions with Rage so I'm not really in a position to judge normal. Come to think of it; the Fade is supposed to be fraught with assholes. I've never come across anther demon and, forgive me if I'm wrong, I don't think that's common.

In light of our last chat, I think Rage is territorial. It doesn't like other demons in its space. Mages act as some sort of beacon for demons, but even though I'm responsible for the more-annoying-than-usual neighbours, Rage hasn't taken the easy route and kicked me out of its space; it continues to rip trespassers to shreds and get ripped to shreds in turn. What else am I meant to conclude? Rage wants me around.

…

**Day 71 – Morning, the Bannorn**

I just shot an epic one-liner at a tree and, for a second, I expected an answer.

Bloody hell, it's too soon. The Tower has ruined me for human contact; I'm so used to my little faction of kids lurking around corners, always giggling helplessly at my comments, or Amell trying to glare my sense of humour out of existence.

I didn't want to do this – I, no it's too… Merlin, I'm afraid. Really, chills-and-goosebumps terrified. I  _will not_  be trapped in insanity and lose myself again. Better magicians than me have gone off the deep end and stayed there, Tom Riddle and Luna included. And I don't think it is Luna's brand of crazy that I'm destined for.

I traced the Stone on my finger, thinking about the dead I'd lost. Under my attention, it shifted; at times it was a tattoo, a metal band, an elaborate stone encrusted glove, but it was always slightly too warm to be entirely normal.

Generally, the Hallows prefer to be symbolic. They're comfortable that way. But the Cloak would turn into a twig of invisibility if it thought it'd please me. It's the most eager of the lot; it's been with me the longest and has shared in some fond memories.

They're not just objects – that much magic has a primitive sentience of its own. Actually, sentience may be too strong a word: whatever they have is barely recognisable as awareness and only deals with the world in a basic good/not good way.

I can't really hate them. Mostly, it'd be a waste of energy. They're happy as long as they're with me. They always find their way back, and, trust me, they're indestructible. The Stone bothers me sometimes; it's tempting and infuriating, and I am weak.

"Hello, Harry." I wasn't really surprised to see Luna standing there. I'd been thinking about her, and even if I hadn't specifically summoned her, the Stone has never been one for control.

"Luna, it's good to see you," I smiled, completely sincere. A little more tension left me.

She looked around, ignoring the obviously weird and going straight for the mundane leaves as if they were the more remarkable thing she's seen. I let her be.

I can always speak with her. Luna's a gift of a person. She has this uncanny ability to understand how people think. If she doesn't agree, she'll let me know in short order, but she doesn't judge.

She spoke when she was ready. "This is a nice place."

"Not all of it." Demons, Templars, nasty trees – not improvements.

"There are always nargles. They're very persistent, and remarkably hardy. Maybe it's because they thrive under pressure? You would've found yourself in a very strange world if it didn't have any pressure."

Luna has a strange outlook. You just need to understand her language. If you know that nargles is code for people who hurt others, suddenly it makes a lot more sense.

"I wouldn't know what to do with myself," I agreed.

"I'm sure you'd find something. Once the nargles stopped hiding my left socks, I had a lot more time to look for crumple-horned snorkacks. You'd like them, I think." Snorkack translation: the level of love and acceptance she got from her mother.

Luna eventually did find it. After years of searching, she looked in the right place quite by chance. She never regretted meeting Dean at Shell Cottage. But I'm broken, too jaded, I doubt I could love that strongly again if I tried.

Unless…

"You think he's here. Is… is Sirius with you?"

She gave that vaguely disappointed look, as if my intelligence failed to meet her expectations. "Hmm, no." She whistled. Birds looked around in alarm. "But I'm sure the one you need most is around here somewhere."

I took a deep breath.

"I'm going to look around," she continued. "I think I hear blibbering humdingers by the stream. Do you want to speak to everyone else?"

"Not today, Luna."

She nodded calmly, "We know you love us, even when you forget to say it."

Ouch. She wields guilt like a lance, but oh so innocently.

She thinks I need to speak to the others, she's probably right, but just because she won't judge me doesn't mean they haven't. They could've turned their gazes on me at any moment. And after when happened before I stepped through the Veil… that's better left unsaid. They've seen me at my worst, and then some. I can admit that I'm ashamed of the person I've become, but it's another thing to  _face_  it. In that case… I'll take the coward's back door. Maybe they won't judge, maybe they will, but until I face them I can maintain plausible deniability, and I need that right now.

I resent Luna for making me think of  _him,_ though. I managed to put all hope of seeing my godfather again out of my mind before I started my research on the Veil of Death. It hurt, but finding him wasn't my aim. It would only morph into an obsession and end in disappointment.

That was before I got plastered and stepped through it. Now that I know what it can do, I can't make myself ignore the possibility that Sirius came here.

See, I know that  _something_  happened to him. A few decades after Sirius's death, he suddenly stopped visiting. That's probably where it all started to go wrong for me.

Here's what I think. His soul remained behind on Earth when his body passed into the Veil. I don't know how much time the transition takes, but I suspect relativity sticks its head in and what seems like an instant is actually a really long while. The soul and body are complexly linked, but when his body arrived in another real realm, years later, his soul had to follow.

I can't just wrangle my feelings back into the boxes they've escaped from – the joys of instability. There was no point delaying the inevitable: I turned the Stone (currently masquerading as a large bead) three times. "Sirius Black."

Nothing. Again.

There is no one I'd rather see more. To Sirius, I wasn't a famous name, or the son of his dead friend, or a duty he'd been shirking for thirteen years; I was my own person. Just Harry. He was a quirky uncle, a great older brother and a father to me. What I wouldn't do to see him once more…

The dead can't ignore me – they don't get that liberty. They aren't stopped by barriers between dimensions like mortal bodies. There isn't much that could stop his soul from coming to me. Actually, there are two: the original body or artificial ones. Either way, he is not dead as we know it.

Damn. This is what I was trying to avoid. There is no way I can leave this possibility hanging.

This may just crush me.

…

**Day 73 – Denerim**

I can't decide which smells worse – Denerim or Redcliffe.

On one hand, Redcliffe had a whole bunch of bodies in various staged of decomposition and the Odeur de l'oppression wafting over from the Tower. Denerim, well… it's gross in the way that only big technologically challenged cities can be. I mean, I think they grasped the basics of sewage systems, but the concept of  _using_  it seems to have been utterly lost on them.

Unlike last time, I approached Denerim from one of the smaller entrances, but it was soon apparent why it was less popular: it was  _downwind_ of the Alienage.

I was unprepared. I can't believe I didn't take note of the smell before, I must've been really out of it. Or accustomed to the scent of the Warden's party after a strenuous workout, which more often than not ended with us covered in darkspawn gore.

The first order of business, after possibly scarring my olfactory passage for the rest of time, was to locate my phylactery. Generally, it's easier to destroy something if you know where to find it, and I decided to start in the Chantry. The Cloak was quite helpful in that regard, but I overheard absolutely nothing of use.

The Templars stationed at the doors didn't chat amongst themselves, but they didn't find me either. I think as long as I don't cast spells, and they don't personally have a glass of my blood, I am as remarkable anyone else. Nice to know.

Mission Chantry was no-go. Admittedly, it was an optimistic long shot, but I had hoped that something would be simple for once. Instead, I'll have to start networking.

The thing about cities is no one knows more secrets than that people that get overlooked. Here, that means elves, children, whores, beggars in the street – you get the grisly picture. In a city like Denerim, they are so common, after a while more fortunate people stop seeing them entirely. And people say a lot of things when they think they're alone.

I can buy their secrets –not with trust or something equally as idealistic, these people gave up on trust a long time ago– but money is a currency they understand. Before I can pay them off, I'm going to need to earn some for myself.

Dangerous secrets don't come cheap. There is no way to do this without making a name for myself: either as a criminal, in which case I draw the attention of the authorities, or as someone who's very good at odd jobs, which gossip will spread to absolutely everyone else. I can't win.

I need to keep on the good side of the criminal network, so they will be less inclined to try and sell my soul. And I  _must_ hide the fact that I'm a mage, or the Templars could be responsible for some informant's substantial pay rise.

…

**Day 87 – Denerim**

Who knew a city needed so much done? I think everyone has a problem around here. I can't charge for quality with the credentials that I simply don't have, so I have to compensate with quantity. And Merlin, have I done  _a lot_.

I've fixed furniture, cleared out rats the size of cats (maybe the sewage is radioactive now?), patched armour, transported goods and turned a blind eye, carried crates, delivered notes to people I never want to meet in the dark, run messages for guards, etc. etc.

It started with the Chanter's board, but my reputation jumped in leaps and bounds in only a fortnight. I'm going by the alias, Grim Reaper, because I never said my sense of humour wasn't morbid, people just assume.

Oh, and forget the stupid Circle – pants are way better than dresses. Pants actually allow one to  _blend in_. The effect is helped by an off-coloured tunic, leather greaves and a vest, as well as some nice boots. Also, I have a cloth mask coving my lower face and an annoying but necessary hat. After my second mugging attempt, I caved and brought a dagger, more for the visual effect than anything.

No one knows what the Grim Reaper actually looks like, which is great, because as soon as people noticed that Grim and Harry have the same face, that would be very Not Good. Grim needs the infamy or he doesn't get work, but I need to avoid the Templars and numerous other parties that I've pissed off, or I don't get to live. The two don't coincide very well.

It's not very profitable, but two gold coins and many silver ones is enough money to set up phase two. I picked Janny because she's deceptively plain and she begs for food outside the pub that seems the most popular with the Templars. If I had to guess, I'd say she's about fifty. I doubt she's known an easy day in her life. If she's survived this long, she's doing something right, which is great. Kneeling down to her level I flashed her a glimpse of a handful of silver coins.

That caught her attention. Her eyes narrowed, she watched me suspiciously and intently. Good. "I have need of information. My client pays handsomely, but demands a certain level of punctuality that has regrettably eluded me. Ten silver for each piece of information on the Circle Tower. I need to know what changes, anything that causes alarm, and I am especially interested in secrets. I will return tomorrow." Speech delivered, I stood smoothly, leaving two coins as an investment in goodwill.

I'll build up to phylacteries. That piece of information could cost lives; I need more influence and more of a reputation before I dare to ask them to risk that. Meanwhile, I need Janny's good regard, so people will seek me out in future with tasty data.

…

**Day 88 – Denerim**

Janny and two of her friends were more helpful that I'd anticipated. I've been shamelessly eavesdropping, but I didn't catch anything about unrest in the Tower.

I nodded as Janny told me about the disappearances: first just one mage, but couple more have recently vanished. It's all very hushed up, which is a good sign. If they'd figured out how to stop it, they'd brag. While they can't prevent it, and they're confused, they look weak, so they keep it a secret.

Greatly pleased, I tipped them for their work, and got toothy smiles in return. In the future, I'm sure they'll be eager to help again.

Unrest in the Tower. Probably my fault. My as-of-yet successful escape must've boosted their confidence a little.

Anything that causes the Templars grief can be chalked up as a success, and on my way to a celebratory beer, I was struck by inspiration; it was hardly out of my way to spur on the flames.

The gossips love new information, they just about salivate if it's scandalous. Most people are terrified of mages; they've been brought up on the idea that Templars exist to do their Maker-given duty and keep the rest of the normal people safe. Fear is used against mages, but fear can be swayed.

Hook: "Good morning," I greeted in the most British manner I could summon, smiling pleasantly.

The unique accent caught the attention of two notorious gossips. One lady, balancing a bundle of washing on her hip, shared a glance with her friend. "Morning, stranger. Welcome to Denerim, where're you from?"

Line: "Many places. Redcliffe, most recently."

"Oh? We haven't had any visitors from there in a while. It's no surprise. I've been hearing strange things about Redcliffe, recently."

Sinker: "It's been terrible. Redcliffe is a mess; our Arl was poisoned, now hundreds of good people are dead." They gasped.

"It was a demon," I murmured miserably, "it raised the dead, we fought back hopelessly but there just wasn't anything we could do. It almost killed everyone. I lost my family, my neighbours. I thought Templars are meant to  _protect_  us from this kind of magic, you know? They've done a real bung job of it recently. There've also been those problems with the Tower–"

"I haven't heard anything about that – no news has come out of the Tower for months!"

"Demons took over, killed most of the mages. Poor sods. Many Templars gave in and became enthralled by the very demons they were supposed to fight. The rest holed up in the basement and roped in some outsiders clear the infestation. I heard it only took four people –just four!– to do what the entire Order couldn't. It's too much for me. I couldn't sleep at night knowing that they can't even keep the mages in the Tower anymore! I've gotta wonder why we keep them around, if they can't even manage that."

I shook my head angrily. The ladies looked up at me, excitement and fear fighting for dominance in their minds. Highly edited, but provable rumours are the best kind. The element of truth is key, with just enough exaggeration to make it believable.

The public wasn't supposed to find out about that, and they certainly weren't meant to hear the tale spun in a way that blames the Templars rather than the mages.

Because what use are the Templars, if they can do their duty?

My congratulatory ale was very satisfying indeed.

…

**Day 90 – A breather in the Brecilian Forest**

As it turns out, I may have pissed off the criminal underbelly of Denerim.

Decisively  _not_  how I wanted to start my day.

It was all going so well. I got a lead on Templar activity and it turns out they've increased the guard on the Chantry chambers in Fort Drakon, so that warrants investigation. Alas, I have to spend my time watching my ass, so for now I'm hiding on the other side of the country.

Just about all Denerim crime is essentially organised by one woman. There are no major independent agents in Denerim – they get roped into the Boss's network or kicked out. The Boss gained the position through the usual channels – she killed her predecessor. Now, she indulges in her influence and riches, and delegates over a gang that does most of the actual organising. It's the dream of all underdogs.

I've heard about her, and it's really no surprise that she knows of me. Each day, more and more homeless have a good word for me. Unfortunately, the higher-ups have something to lose and they can't afford to have their minions loyal to someone outside their network.

Hopefully, someone in a high place has decided that the influence I've acquired is a threat, because that alternative is that they're interested in me because they've figured out I'm a mage.

I'm expecting an ultimatum and day now; probably along the vein of 'get out of our town' or 'come, join the Dark Side'.

…

**Day 90/1? – Brecilian, probably technically morning**

The Fade somehow never manages to be boring, despite the overwhelming bleakness of the environment.

It's the company, I think. There's nothing on earth that is quite like a demon. Sure, one tends to meet mortal embodiments of pride, sloth and desire over a lifetime, but they never have such  _passion_. There is something very earnest about Rage.

I'm no Sherlock, but I'm capable of seeing the clues right in front of me. Rage's degree of injury seem to coincide with my moods: if I go to bed angry, I attract more problems and he obviously fights off more demons.

Or are they competition? Interesting.

"Why do you keep doing this?" I gestured at the demon's oozing wounds.

It regarded me for a moment. I was expecting our interaction to end on par of usual, with my disappointment, but he actually deigned to respond. "You are unique, and strangely emotional. Most mages know better. Nothing changes here, but you first came from another world. That has only happened once before."

I froze. My throat clenched painfully. "Someone went this way before me," I intoned blankly.

"Two beacons. One lost. Go now."

It cast me out of the Fade. I woke curled up at the base of a tree; cold, shivering, with feelings I don't quite know how to describe.

…

**Day 91 – Denerim, late ate in the afternoon**

I was beset upon entering the city. Barely made it past the gates before I sprung an ambush custom designed for me.

Deftly drawing my knife, I tried to look as intimidating as possible – when you're not much taller than a dwarf or more heavily built than an elf, that's difficult.

"Put that away, kid, you'll hurt yourself."

Uncalled for. Granted, the guy who spoke could probably get away with it; six foot and burly, and obviously wealthy. I had a feel I knew where this was going.

"The name's Slim Couldry. Let's talk," he drawled slowly, walking closer without concern. "See, I know you're the Grim Reaper, and I'm here to deliver a… proposition on behalf of my Lady."

Called it. The Boss has played her hand.

"Ah, you should've said so, there was no need to bother these upstanding gentlemen," I gestured at the eager thugs, managing to avoid sounding sarcastic. "I wouldn't dream of slighting our Lady."

True story. The Boss has  _hundreds_  of minions. They could be a real problem if they alerted the Templars whenever I came into sight and frightened off my nice little information network. It would put a damper in my plans, most certainly. At worst, I'd be killed or chased off. I wouldn't miss Denerim, but I do need to get my phylactery  _before_  I get my arse booted out of town.

Slim acknowledged me with a nod, and continued smoothly. "We've been watching you. We've seen some of you work, and, frankly, we don't think you're living up to your potential. You could do amazing things, be a legend, if you had more ambition. Magic should be used for more than fixing tables, son."

 _Seriously?_  Is a little privacy too much to ask for?

Something must've come across in my expression, Slim added, "No, don't get me wrong – we don't mind if you're a mage. That's actually a point in your favour. We rarely get apostates this far out, it speaks very highly of your skill. Now, as I see it, we can do two things from here. You can refuse to join us, but I think you'll find the Templars a little harder to avoid. Otherwise, they'll tend to ignore you, or find themselves impeded if they catch up. We have hands in all sorts of pockets, and we take care of our assets."

An asset again. Joy.  _That's_  why I wanted to keep my status a secret. Now, I'm fresh out of options. "What would you have me do?"

"I've some jobs that need a special touch. There are some objects of interest, a couple nobles that need to be reminded of their place. Burglary. Nothing major. You'll be well paid, of course.

I've been literally and figuratively backed into a corner. Working for Slim will restrict my freedom a little, which I've rather enjoyed as of late. I suppose I could say that the idea of stealing from nobles has my morals protesting, but honestly, I've done worse, and I've got bigger problems. For one, I can guarantee that the kind of big jobs they have in mind won't stay minor – they'll give me infamy and attract the wrong sort of attention. They'll take a large cut of my pay, probably get me injured, and surely waste my time, but it's a small price to pay for their protection. If I don't comply they'll have me arrested anyway. Besides, chances are they know where the phylacteries are kept. Getting that information from them will be like wrestling candy from a baby – harder than you'd expect.

…

**Day 93 – lunch, a quiet, boring day**

I haven't been dragged back to any secret headquarters, let in on any critical missions. They haven't made me do much at all which is a surprise, since my spells make it ludicrously easy. Three step procedure: notice-me-not, confundus, summoning. I relieved a person in the market of their gems and stole a flashy sword from a magic shop.

It's pretty great, actually; they haven't monopolised much of my time at all. In fact, if I wasn't aware of them keeping an eye on my every move, I'd be all most fine with it.

Ignoring them is my tactic. What more could they hold over me? I mean, the priorities of this place are so screwed up that, aside from being suspiciously durable, the most incriminating thing about me is that I am a mage.

The schedule will go ahead as planned. I'll infiltrate Fort Drakon tomorrow to check for vials of bodily fluid, and I'm sure Slim will find out. He might be mad, and he'll think that he has the right to tell me what to do since he's basically my parole officer. But he's probably expecting it. Even if they haven't heard whispers about what I'm after, they can guess. Surely there is only one reason why an escaped Circle mage would willingly hang around Denerim instead of hightailing for Tevinter.

Otherwise, things have been going well. Half of Denerim has heard about the recent mage escapades and Redcliffe's demon problem, and a heartening percentage of them believe that the Templars are to blame. Public discontent has risen impressively. The tin can brigade has been getting the cold shoulder and suspicious looks – it's beautiful. That's why I'm expecting the other shoe to drop any day now.

…

**Day 95 – really early, a roof in Denerim**

I'd been anticipating my next Fade visit. I'd been looking forward to confronting Rage the moment I arrived, but the demon ruined my dramatic timing by not being there.

When it deigned to show up, I was still venting by way of blasting curses.

"You!" My curse missed it. I was  _almost_  disappointed.

"You said someone else has come from another world – was it my world? And who? When?" I demanded, hands clenched in fists at my sides. My thoughts?  _SiriusSiriusSiriusSirius_

"Sacrifice your phylactery in my name, and I will tell you."

"Ha!" I barked humourlessly, control completely shot. The Elder wand materialised in my hand, the wood singing eagerly beneath my palm. I'd forgotten the feeling, it'd been so long, and under different circumstances I might've grimaced. "I'd rather leave it in the hands of the  _Templars_  than see it in yours."

Couldn't quite tell its emotion, but it was appropriately terrifying. It shrieked at me like a spoilt toddler, spittle flying through the air. The heat usually simmering beneath its skin seemed to burn hotter until it combusted in a wave from head to toe.

"Temper, temper!" I provoked, and braced myself for an attack.

I wasn't expecting Rage to snap off a lyrium shard and hurl it at me; that was a particularly canny move, since I've learnt that lyrium tends to react very badly with my spells. I remembered myself midway through a shield charm (just as well, who knows what would've happened?), but by then I didn't have enough time to dodge fully.

It shattered behind me and shards cut into my calves and back. I gasped as white-hot pain blacked out my vision.

When I came to, I was curled into a tight ball in my current roost. I manoeuvred my aching carcass into a sitting position with my knees drawn up to my chest. Gingering, I prodded one of the points of pain. My finger came away sticky.

"Lumos," I ground out between several more satisfying and impressive, but somewhat less useful expletives.

The damaged looked even messier than it felt. Blue-lined wounds glowed under the light. Or maybe that was the reaction of the lyrium and my magic. Either way, it outlined the gashes. Dark tracks of blood revealed how recently they'd been open wounds, though they were now oddly cauterised. It felt like someone had taken a sword right out of the brazier and liberally applied it to my person.

Raw lyrium exists in both worlds. Makes sense that its effects carry across. Perfect. Just bloody perfect. "Bastard!"

…

**Day 97 – dinner time, a dusty corner of a Chantry**

My wounds took longer than usual to heal and they ached the entire time. Though the marks have disappeared, they still occasionally pain me, especially when I'm casting. I think some of the lyrium go into my bloodstream before I could wash it off. That'll take a while to flush out, hopefully there will be no lasting effects. Lyrium, after all, is poisonous and addictive and Merlin only  _knows_  what else.

But back to today. I crept around, completely concealed by the power of my tiara of invisibility.

Yeah, I don't know. The hallow was having an off day or something.

The thing is… Fort Drakon is a veritable fortress. Getting in was as hard as implied, even when invisible. Patrols are well ordered and hard to predict, the guards are alert, the halls are narrow and pose all sorts of problems for anyone trying to enter, plus, they echo at the slightest sound. Any noise I make I can counter with magic, but, frankly, that leads to a more pressing issue – it's hard to avoid being trodden on.

Finding the Fort's Chantry was another problem. The place is huge and it's a labyrinth of all sorts of nasty surprises. Many minor complications and a creepy dungeon later, I found it.

The Chantry itself is a rather secluded room. It's as typically ostentatious as others, but there is something different about it. For one, there is a hidden room behind the dais. The fortified door is only wide enough for a man, and a Templar stands directly in front of it at all times. A dozen more are spread throughout the room.

Two problems: Templars and walls. Spells aren't even an option, their abilities will wake up their stunned comrades faster than I could knock them all out. Cremating them would clear the room, but the stone walls are well fortified, I'd need a Neville-ified boil-cure potion to make a dent (unfortunately no one ever managed to reproduce that level of acidity) before drawing reinforcements.

I won't get through it without them noticing and objecting, unless I have a fast acting, gaseous sleeping draught would be preferable. Finding lavender and valerian will be tricky, but manageable due to the herb trade, but flobberworms are the real problem. If they even exist here, I doubt people harvest them, thinking they'd go well in stew or a health poultice. They don't really inspire confidence, medicinally speaking.

I've been watching for hours and the door hasn't been opened. If I had to guess… well, I wouldn't, because that never leads anywhere pleasant, but so far the clues point to that door as the most likely location.

It's a start. At least  _something_  is looking up.

_*The reader traces an inked map of the fort. One small room is done in very high detail. The annotations suggest planning. The reader is unfamiliar with most words, but they sound like magic.*_

…

**Day 103 – dinner, some place that might pass as a restaurant**

"Kid. You'll be working with me today," a voice came from right beside me. I startled and my heart jumped unhealthily. A man clad in leather seemed to materialise from thin air. He was short by Ferelden standards, but still taller than me – and _muscular_. Jeez, his arms were bared to the world and crossed over his chest, clearly displaying muscles that bore the remnants of action over the years.

"Slim sends his regards," he continued, looking far too amused at my expense, and I couldn't for the life of me work out why. "We have to steal a shipment. Crates in a warehouse. We'll be dealing with mages, magical traps and protections."

"Anything else?" I muttered mutinously, but belying that, I was already falling into step beside the mercenary? Pirate? Rogue? Who knows? These contacts, when I'm required to work with them, never give me a name, let alone a job description.

Buff-muscly-ripped-guy gave me a deadpan glare. "I hope you can deal with the unexpected. I'm not being your meat shield."

"I have a butter knife," I waved my dagger sarcastically. "Should anything dangerous spring up from behind, I'll be sure to distract it before I run behind you for cover."

He didn't appreciate my humour.

The warehouse was falling to pieces. It looked abandoned, but that was probably the point. I followed Ripped up onto the neighbouring roof and through the second level window.

Subtle infiltration isn't really my style. I come and go unseen, but usually through the front door. But I didn't complain, since technically I was the hired help… except for the hired bit, come to think of it, was I even going to get  _paid,_ or was Slim just cutting costs by throwing my arse in as free labour? I'm sure that sounded less weird in my head… Whatever. I'd hesitate to say I followed  _meekly_ , exactly, but I was quiet. And more or less passive. I figured that if he wanted my input, he'd surely demand it.

We dropped through the window silently. Ripped's movements were unhuman; he flowed into a defensive stance like his bones were made of liquid.

There was nothing in the small room to greet us. Odd. I could smell the charged ozone, like the energy that preludes a lightning strike. That bespeaks of magic and pain. I hesitated for a moment – whatever it was, it wouldn't kill me, but Ripped? Definitely screwed.

With his life on the line, chances were I'd need the added range and focus that only a wand could give me. This was no time to be squeamish. The Wand appeared with barely a thought, overly keen to make up for the lack of action it'd seen in recent years. I artfully resisted the urge to throw it across the room. My companion didn't spare a glace for my strange weapon.

I whispered a general detection charm. A white light shot out before changing trajectory and zooming eagerly towards the door. The colour hovered around the edges, so it was probably embedded in the doorframe and triggered by anything passing through it.

The light flashed alternatively between a bright green and an off yellow, indicating a strong combination of spells, of the hex and curse variety. That shade of green meant physical pressure or restraint (maybe an aggressive paralysis ward?) and the yellow was indicative of a strong acidic or biting effect.

I grimaced. No wonder they didn't have a guard in here.

"Homenum Revelio." The Wand echoed a warning. I tapped Ripped's shoulder. "Two guards outside: first is three paces to the left of the door, the second is ten more after that. Twelve more downstairs."

He nodded. There was a dull shine before the steel was concealed along his forearm.

I'd prefer to blow a hole in the wall and create my own door. Unfortunately; "We're aiming for subtlety?"

"Yes," he replied.

"I was afraid you'd say that." Being unfamiliar with the spells, I couldn't reliably counter them, but I could probably negate the problem. The paralysis type thing was easy to coax through the wood of the building, and I convinced it to take up residence in the walls bellow us, but the acid was more stubborn and refused to be tricked.

"I need to provoke the curse; get it to attack the door instead of us. At the very least, the minions out there are going to notice when the door disappears. At worst, removing the support might bring the roof down on us and they'll  _all_  know. Not very likely, but brace yourself all the same."

"Do it."

I transfigured the door into a rabbit, but it wasn't around for long before the curse activated and dissolved it into a puddle of goo. A messy way to go. Glad that wasn't me.

There was a startled grunt from outside, but Ripped was already passing through the doorway, making no sound despite the loose boards. The first minion went down with a gurgle. Ripped jumped away from his victim's desperate swing and towards the next guard, drawing a second knife as he did so.

The second, a tall mage, went stiff as a board thanks to my paralysis spell before she could shout a warning. My companion smacked her head with the pommel, knocking her out cold.

Two out of commission, no casualties, so no murder enquiries. A good result.

As a stroke of luck, a small window – more of a hole in the wall, really – afforded a view of the objective. The cargo was in several large, nondescript crates, sitting in the middle of an open area. The ground around them smelt of magic. That promised to be tedious.

"Damn," Ripped swore softly. "Those are pressure triggered. My least favourite kind."

"You can tell?"

"Contours of the floor. Also, I recognise that glyph configuration. It hurts."

Pressure. An exploitable weak spot. Intelligent use of magic is all about finding the loop holes. Cave in the ceiling, let the debris set off the traps and bury/hamper the guards? Risky. Wouldn't be able to get the crates and Ripped if the collapsing ceiling (more than likely) takes this floor with it.

Perhaps I could ignore the approach they'd expected and prepared for, and not lug the loot out by foot. Best case, I wouldn't have to go down there or deal with their traps at all.

"How fragile is this cargo?"

"Not very. It's Howe's shipment of silver to Highever."

"The Arl?"

"Yeah. He's into some bad business. Thinks he can get it by us. Idiot. Killed the Couslands, faked Vaughan's death, hired Crows, bartered with Tevinter, and this here, he's siphoned off the royal treasury. He's getting too greedy, starting to forget his head, thinks his power over the nobles means he has power over the Boss. We're onto him."

Well, shit. That's seriously  _not nice_. He definitely had this coming. Fortunately, bars of silver could endure a bit of jostling. "Give me a moment, I can get them from here."

With the Wand, it was an easy job. The crates themselves were protected by a static ward, but that would collapse in on itself as soon as I shrunk them. After that, it was only a matter of levitating them through the window. I managed two before they even noticed something wasn't quite right. Then, it was merely a matter of sacrificing finesse for speed, summoning the last through the window, and executing a tactical retreat.

We reached a secure spot and I set the crates back to their normal size. Ripped gave me a cut of the loot (surprisingly) and a pat on the back (rather alarmingly), looking grudgingly impressed.

"You do good work, kid."

…

**Day 109 – morning, the docks**

I've been talking with Anders most days, my patronus as the go-between. It's quite a drop from when he was in solitary and we'd chat several times each day, but we're both a lot busier. It's good for us; our minds don't sit on idle very well.

We keep each other updated. The little funny bits mostly. Like that time I messed up the confundus charm and convinced my mark that he was a potato until it wore off, or how Anders started a rumour about secret passages. He's had the Templars pressing their noses against the walls for  _weeks_  now. It's an impressive time. Apparently they're still doing it, which is great: I've got money on them making it to the two month mark.

Amell reports to me also. Both she and Derik are doing well. Templars are antsy but they haven't been taking it out on anyone more than usual. That's a result of basic Circle Escape Etiquette: if you get out you're on your own, you're responsible for yourself and no one else gets hurt.

They've doubled the number of patrols, but they're no closer to figuring out how mages are leaving. Although they believe differently. It's wishful thinking on their part – they'd like to think they haven't been mashing their faces for nothing.

I'm sorry I missed that. Sounds downright  _hysterical_.

Of course I miss the people, too. And not by an insignificant amount. Some days it hurts to think about. Wherever I am, be it Denerim or the Brecilian, it's too quiet because none of the meaningless noise is for me. I'm just a spectator. More like a spectre, actually. Business, threats, trashy pickup lines – nothing new. People talk at me, but never to me.

I see Ripped occasionally, but he rarely speaks at all.

You don't really make friends in this sneaky business. At most, there are some people you respect and trust not to stab you more than others.

Right, need to stop this moping now. I'm having a bad day. I can't find any flobberworms whatsoever, so I'm at a standstill. I'll go pilfer more secrets from the Chantry anyway, that'll cheer me up.

…

**Day 112 – dinner, a rooftop in Denerim**

"Harry!"

Despite being in the relative safety of the market, I turned halfway towards the shout, dagger falling automatically into hand. No gleaming silver, no rush of footsteps – probably not an attack, but best not get my hopes up.

Then I recognised the voice. It was one of the older, more experienced burglars. So much for my restful afternoon.

"What now, Stan?"

Since my successful, rather infamous quest with Ripped, Slim had been sending me on more dangerous heists. Maybe today my boss would give into what he's wanted to ask for weeks and send me in to hustle up cash from the unfortunate gamblers. Merlin, I hoped not. No one takes me seriously.

"Your sister's looking for you. She's round by the smithy. Run for it, mate, I don't know what you did this time, but she's livid!"

"Thanks!" I yelled back, already running. Message sent and received: Templars heading this way, phylactery in hand. Time to disappear.

I made it to the alley and had time for a smartarse wave to the Templars who were just rounding the corner. I darted out of sight and apparated from the shadows, their pounding footsteps echoing in my ears.

I was still giggling breathlessly when I landed in one of my usual haunts.

The fact that Ripped was also in my temporary house no longer surprised me.

"Sure, rifle through my stuff. Why would I mind?" I put up a token fuss at the intrusion, but everything I own of importance, I carry securely on my person.

He deigned to raise an eyebrow at my method of travel, but otherwise didn't stop what he was doing. Still, he must've been interested if he felt the need to question me. "That little vanishing trick something you learned in the Tower?"

He continued, not caring to wait for an answer. "That'd be how the mages are disappearing, I suppose. All the troublemakers are gone, I hear. What with all the mages that died in the demon attack, the Circle must be nearly empty nowadays."

I hid my snort relatively unsuccessfully. "Yeah, it's a handy trick, sure, but it's more than that; it's a chain reaction. In a reaction that releases several individuals, where each individual inevitably sets of several more reactions just like it, the whole community becomes involved before any attempt can be made to stop it. An exponential reaction rate… my inner nerd might just wet himself."

Ah nuclear physics. It's funny how we draw parallels between our observations of nature, and analogise such perfect models, even for something as unpredictable as social change. (Or perhaps that isn't remarkable at all, rather, that unpredictability is vital and is fundamentally reflective of nature itself?)

I shook myself out of my musings, for a moment letting it get the better of me, and then proceeded to put it in a way my poor companion may have had a hope of understanding.

"Circle mages will leave and get far. Some will get caught, maybe in Orlais or the Free Marches, and brought to new Circles, where they will teach others. The cycle repeats; more and more with every recurrence."

"Well, that sounds downright diabolical."

"Isn't it just?" My grin was just a tad feral.

"It is good for us, I suppose, if mages become more willing to enter big cities. I suspect you will be asked to draw them into the fold, sooner or later," he predicted sagely, and then returned to leafing through my meagre belongings.

I really must get his name one of these days. Can't keep calling him Ripped, no matter how apt, it's a little distracting.

…

**Day 114 – night, outside my place in Denerim**

Ripped was proved right not two days later.

"Kid!" Slim called across the marked to get my attention. I rolled my eyes and dawdled over as slowly as I dared. Will they never stop that? Surely, I'm not  _that_  small.

"We have a test of you recruitment skills. There's a rogue mage fresh from the Tower camping outside the gates, past the knoll, by the large oak tree by the river. I'll be interested to see how you do."

I suppose there were worse ways to spend my time. Case in point: today was meant to be for more recon in the Chantry. Sitting in a hard, stone corner of a slightly dingy keep, counting the colonies of mould while waiting for something to change, isn't as riveting as it sounds. Surely I am approaching the maximum time any sane person would persist with this act in futility. It's time to change tactics. I'll endeavour to adopt said tactic once I figure out what it is.

…

The further from Denerim you get, the more pleasant the world is. I found the camp right where Slim's spies reported it, just on the boarder of Barely-Tolerable and What-Is-That-Smell?

As a deer, I risked being mistaken for dinner, but it was much easier to move my four legged form through the undergrowth without rustling anything. Plus, it's far more striking when I change back, and impressive was the angle I was aiming for.

Then I saw who was sitting at the base of the tree, and most conscious thought fled my mind. I was at a dead run before I'd even cleared the tree line, my hooves sure despite the rocky ground and my even rockier mentality.

The mage started at the noise and automatically reached for the staff at his side. He didn't level it, though. "Prongs? … _Harry?!_ "

I changed midstride and ended up skipping a step, trying to straighten out of a hunched position, all the while moving faster than my puny human legs could keep up with. I would've landed very painfully and ungracefully on my face if there hadn't been a convenient cushy mage to tackle.

"Anders!" My voice broke several centuries ago. I can and will deny any slander claiming otherwise for the rest of time.

I hit him with a thud that might've been heard in Denerim. My momentum sent us careering into a bush.

I ended up half on top of him, one arm crushed painfully between us and the other bracing against the ground, stinging from the gravel rash I'd collected on my palms and elbows.

It was humid evening. Oh so very humid. Pretty much raining. That's why our faces were a little damp. Manly sweat.

Fine! I teared up. I couldn't help it – and believe me, I tried – I was just so sodding  _grateful_  I wasn't alone; no more sulking about Thedas, mocking Templars to pass the time, haunting the pubs and market to try to keep my mind off my loneliness. It's completely viable to blame the unstable emotions that come, package deal, with the seventeen year old body. I have had a trying couple of weeks; it's not all fun and law breaking, those are the just interesting bits. The parts in between are just fillers in time, not much going on, certainly too much thinking. But now I didn't have to think, just feel, which is sometimes infinitely easier.

The happiness peaked because of the slight pain, oddly enough. The pain made it  _official_. He really was there – he couldn't be a convincing trick of the mind if I could feel the dirt in my grazes, the stupid feather he insists on wearing up my nose, his slightly pained breathing ruffling my hair. Oops.

I felt his slightly hysterical laughter shaking his chest for a moment before I rolled off him. "Ow! Andraste's flaming knickers, Harry, what are you packing on that tiny frame? Rocks?"

"That… ouch, that hurt more than I thought it would," I studied my palms. "Damn it. Again?"

"I shouldn't heal you," he groaned, sitting up and brushing leaves and dirt off his coat and hair.

"You heal everyone. Up to and including nasty old cats."

"Cats are only occasionally temperamental. You, on the other hand… I'm sure there's something in my moral principles that makes an exception for people that  _create_  pain and chaos."

He did anyway. He picked out the clinging rocks and his spell smoothed my skin over. My magic welcomed his like an old friend.

I glared accusingly, "You didn't tell me you were coming."

"Surprise?" he offered uncertain.

"I'm not angry, you berk. Well, maybe a little. I could've brought lunch. I hope you've got enough keep me fed."

I summoned his satchel with a careless wave and peered inside, noting his twitch with interest. "If you say anything about frivolous use of magic, I'm afraid I shall have to throttle you with your oppressive Chantry teachings."

"No, not ranting –  _threatening_. If you eat my fish, I'm going to turn you into an icicle." He huffed, and I laughed.

Maybe we needed this break. We've settled a little, found the equilibrium between us. The strained tension is gone; the strange companionship that makes me feel like we've known each other for years instead of months is dominant once again.

I'm reconsidering something Luna said – the person I needed to see the most might not be Sirius, as I'd thought. Since his first surprised shout, a warm feeling had been bubbling up somewhere around the chest-o-region. Indigestion, no doubt. I handed him the fish, as a precaution.

We finished catching up, but there wasn't much to tell. What was there to say? We missed each other? We were a couple sad, lonely people? Pretty unnecessary at that point; I was still using him as a backrest.

"What changed your mind?" I finally asked.

"Tower life isn't for me. I thought I could put up with it, but I just can't live with the threat of Tranquillity hanging over me. I'm not going to spend the rest of my life in the Tower, walking in circles."

"There's  _got_  to be a philosophy in there somewhere," I muttered.

He shrugged, jostling me on purpose. "Quiet, you. Don't ruin this for me. I'm having a Feeling. Anyway, I left as soon as I could apparate properly. It's not up there with cat whispering as one of my skills, let's just put it that way. Who knows how long I'd have had before I messed up again and they made me Tranquil anyway," he said with false cheer.

"I would've stopped them." I grabbed his shoulder. Spur of the moment thing. Unlike most of my impulses, that was the right move.

He regarded me oddly seriously. "I bet you would."

Damn, now  _I'm_  having a Feeling.

"How did you find me?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"Grape vine. I was the minion sent to convert you to the Dark Side. Just a warning; we get shitty quotes for life insurance, the premium is a bitch, but the benefits are alright. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if Slim knew we were friends and set me up for this because he figured I'd have a good chance of succeeding. He'd definitely want you on side. If not for burglary, then the Boss could always use another healer to repair the cannon fodder."

"Sometimes, I understand less than half the things that come out of your mouth."

"Don't worry about it. Come on, I'll take you back to my place," I said, standing up and stretching. "Don't freak out if Ripped is there. He drops in randomly, I still haven't figured out how he does it."

"Ripped? That's not his name, is it?"

"No, but you'll understand."

My (occasional) accomplice, but (more often) burglar was indeed lounging on my transfigured bed. He instinctively went for one of his numerous knives when he saw I wasn't alone.

"Relax! We come in peace. This is Anders. I'd prefer if he remained in one piece."

Anders flinched a little at the initial aggression, but was soon eyeing Ripped's arms appreciatively. "I see what you mean," he murmured.

The other man cocked his head, staring intently at the blond mage. His expression smoothed, soon enough, "Call me Tom."

"Oh dear Merlin," I muttered, rolling my eyes. I'd been running around, breaking into places with this guy for how long now? All the while, calling him Ripped in my head for lack of anything else, then Anders walks in and gets a name _immediately_.

Hmph. Pretty boys.  _Honestly_.

…

**Day 116 – night, my place in Denerim**

Nothing much to do. Anders is out. Tom – no, that sounds too weird – Ripped dragged him off to repair some of the cannon fodder. Or that might've been a cover story, alluding to something I certainly don't want to walk in on.

I guess I could do something; prowl around the lower alleys, grab a drink with my contacts to keep on their good side, do some odd jobs to pass the time, but there's not enough time for any of that. It's almost sunset, Anders will be back soon.

Some scars run deeper than others. Pretty boy Anders may have filled out his frame a bit, cut his hair and washed off all visible reminder of his imprisonment, but he's kidding himself if he thinks the mental wounds have closed, or will close immediately.

Make no mistake, he was psychologically tortured, he's still in a bad way. No one just bounces back from that.

Now there are nightmares, and they aren't pretty.

I woke, strangely lucid, on the first night. A spell was at my lips, then a whimper came from the other side of the room.

I rolled out of bed in a flash, expelling my breath in a quiet curse.

Anders was huddled in the only spot where the moon and the stars were visible from the tiny window, eyes open so wide that the white seemed to glow in the dark. He was clearly miles away.

He found rooms too dark, too small. The air seemed to vanish, the light left and he saw demons in the shadows. In the worst moments, he remembered the abominations, especially the ones he recognised.

I slid down the wall next to him, pulled him close, and felt him tremble.

"You're in my house. There is nothing here that will hurt you. It's dark at the moment, but tomorrow we can watch the sun rise. You're not alone." I explained quietly, hoping that he couldn't feel how panicky my heartbeat was getting.

That's the way we work. Together we're broken, but neither of us are dead weight. We stumble along, supporting each other. We both need grounding. Something to shatter the illusions.

…

**Day 118 – morning, Denerim**

The door slammed.

I rolled over lazily, "Bad day? Saving idiots from themselves not as fulfilling as you thought?"

"Not when they throw up on me, it isn't." Anders growled, stomping over to our improvised bathroom. Without hesitation, he emptied the bucket of water over his head.

"Dramatic."

He shuddered, flicking his soggy coat mournfully. "The smell is never going to leave those feathers."

"That's a shame," I yawned. Closing my eyes, I listened to soft scuffles as he moved around.

Until, that is, he wrung out his hair over my head.

"Hey!" I squawked, vaulting upright.

"Oh good, you're up. And we've got another job. A big one."

I followed, still grumbling, and endured Anders' mocking that I sounded like an upset cat with an attempt at dignity.

…

"Anders, you're looking… damp. Harry, as subtly evil as always," Ripped greeted us. It may have been the closet optimist in me, but I'm sure the corners of his eyes crinkled due to a hastily repressed smile.

Anders crossed his arms irritably. "Not to rush things, but… get a move on. Why are we near the old estates?"

"Suspicious activity. Currently, we suspect blood mages, but no one is sure. There are six people and a couple animals. I'm here to scout them out, you're to keep me alive."

His voice was bland, but there was an undercurrent of worry that he couldn't quite conceal. If he thought this warranted two strong mages and a master make-your-ninjas-cry rogue, then, well, it probably qualified as a risky situation we were jumping into. Blood mages terrify most people, and six people plus other assorted meatbags? That's a lot of blood.

I was a little surprised and humbled that he trusted us to back him, even in the worst case.

He led us to the entrance. The door was open a crack, providing a line of sight into a dark void. It couldn't have been spookier if they'd tried.

"Wait here. I'm going to take a look. If I'm not back in five minutes, ready fireballs," the rogue muttered grimly.

Anders' hand fell on his shoulder before he could turn away. "Blood mages can do a lot of damage in five minutes."

"Then I hope you can run quickly."

And then he vanished.

I'd just braced myself for an agonising wait, so when he appeared a few seconds later, he caused me to jump quite impressively.

"Merlin!" but the only reason he'd be back for backup so soon… I set my jaw. "Right. Well, stealth is overrated, anyway."

My spells revealed there were no people in the building. I threw a lumos orb at the ceiling, where it hung in mid-air. It gave the room an eerie appearance. Dark shadows played on the walls in strange patterns, then I realised, even as Anders was saying it, "Blood. Still wet. Is it just me, or does that look like more than a body can spare?" Evidently, we'd just missed out on some action. It'd involved someone scribbling all over the place with bodily fluid. Disturbing in any context.

Ripped spotted something in the next room. A too-pale body laid spread eagle in the middle of the titled floor. The cut on his neck smiled chillingly at us. "It was more than  _he_  could spare."

Hairs prickled on the back of my neck. I spun, readying my hands. "Something is still here."

Anders stepped up to my right, listening. Eye's widened, "Brace!"

The door exploded. My hasty shield stopped the shrapnel, which pulverised itself against the invisible barrier, but the shockwave knocked me off my feet.

I rolled backwards into a crouch while throwing an impedimenta. It was a smooth move, but would've been more impressive if it'd done something. The spell hit, but the thing shrugged it off entirely. Something dark and twisted, carrying its own ghostly atmosphere, surged through the doorway, though not much further. Anders froze it, Ripped kicked its face in.

More were shades coming, but I knew how to deal with them now.

"Anders! Your left!" I pointed to clustered group.

A blast from his staff froze them where they stood. Excellent. "Confringo!"

"Urgh, Potter!" Anders objected to the impromptu shower of demon.

"Quick nagging–" ducked a monster's red-hot swipe, returned with added interest "–all I'm hearing is complaining about something that works."

A hand grabbed my ankle and pulled. I overbalanced, arms windmilling. Accidental magic shoved cutting curses in all directions in what was a dramatic gore show, with the more helpful effect of pushing the nasties back.

I glanced down. The corpse was a lot more mobile than it should've been; one hand digging into my ankle, the other wrapped around the hilt of a dagger which was on a fast line to my knees.

"Oh, no you don't!" I leapt back and kicked. My boot met flesh, his head snapped back. The knife caught the side of my thigh instead of my very important tendons.

Some part of me abstractedly noted the burn, but I really didn't feel it. I landed heavily on back and shoulders beside him, and caught his next clumsy swipe by the wrist. I squeezed, grunting with the effort of applying pressure to the muscle groups with would force him to lose his grip – there! Thank you, Zevran.

Thus disarmed, I weathered his next punch and parted his head from his shoulders with an emotionally overpowered diffindo.

Ripped was doing his ninja thing, dealing with the last of them. I sat upright, just as the last of the wood chippings from the door floated to the ground.

"Harry!" Anders saw the blood and drew the right conclusions. Straight into healer mode, he dropped to my side and did his magic fingers thing.

I glared at the twice-dead corpse. "He was pretty spry for a dead guy."

Anders gripped my leg harder than was necessary. "Ow!" The pain started trickling past the adrenaline. "Not good? Too flippant, perhaps?"

The skin itched as it knitted together. My friend met my eyes seriously once the damage had settled into a red line. "Don't do that to me."

Something warm and fuzzy expanded in my chest. I gripped his shoulder strongly, "I'm fine."

Something settled over my awareness like an uncomfortably thick, muffling blanket. "Or I may need to take that back," I murmured distractedly. Maybe I'd lost more blood than I'd thought.

"What is that?" Anders blinked, shaking his head slightly. Ok, so it wasn't just me. That meant something, surely.

Something… something was fiddling around where it shouldn't have been. I could identify that much. My thoughts were sluggish, dampened, lazy. Unfortunately, we all have our weaknesses, and occumency is one of mine.

Something was wrong, but the more I struggled, the more I found that I didn't particularly care.

"Where is it?" I barely heard, "Demon… kill it…" There was a thump. Was that Ripped?

A weight slumped against me. Anders? My worry spiked. Weren't we doing something? He could be hurt. But that petered out. His face was peaceful. Asleep. That sounded like a great idea.

"That's right…  _just sleep…_ "

…

"Urgh." I forced myself upright, clutching my head. "What the  _hell_  did I drink?"

I didn't feel dehydrated, though. Maybe a concussion. Maybe a combination of both. Hopefully my drinking didn't lead to the notion that wrestling a dragon was a good idea. You know –  _again_. Of all the lessons to stick, surely the grim business of alcohol being flammable would be one of them.

"Something Fred and George brewed, you know what they're like. I did warn you." That sweat voice; my wife, dear Ginny. My heart soared. It felt oddly as if I hadn't been this happy in a long while. But wait – I was  _always_  happy with Ginny, even our fights never lasted long, so why did it feel distant? It felt oddly right that she was here, like she'd never gone.  _Gone_  – the concept crashed through my mind on a war path, and I remembered exactly why gazing into her eyes tugged a forever burning wound. Hallucination. So I didn't discount the dragon wrestling just yet.

It took me a while, but I remembered she'd been shot. I was there. I felt the pain now, as if the lead was carving its way through my stomach, instead of hers. The memories were buried… why were they? They'd always been at the surface, they'd driven me for  _centuries_.

Suspicion. I didn't allow myself to be distracted by her calling my name, although I wanted to; illusions rarely satisfy.

I curled and pulled, grabbing memories with stubbornness and singular determination. Then, finally – ice, fire, a house, Anders, smoke,  _demon_  –

The Fade. Of course.

"Leave me alone!" I slashed my hands and the small demons scampered off, retreating from the blast of fire.

"Rage?! Did you  _pull me in here_? I was busy and in a precarious situation, you self-absorbed little shit!" Nothing. It'd never shown much restraint against insults. "Get out here you plucked orange turkey!"

Nobody was home. Weird. I massaged my forehead, dragging more recent memories through the pain. Something obviously went wrong with the mission. Damn. Was I alone here? Was there a reason? I had no idea, but action was preferable to waiting. I'd have to find one of those weird portals. There was no predicting them, so I set off aimlessly.

"Puny mortal!" A strange type of demon crawled out of the solid ground right below my feet.

Yelling diffindo in response was a standard retort, but instead of showing the demon's grissly insides, it turned it into a rubber frog.

Oh, that's right. Fade-logic doesn't agree with Earth-magic. Volatile spells. I rubbed my head with a sigh.

I avoided a few more similar instances by careful use of the few Thedas spells I knew, until I stumbled into some more serious trouble. Four demons actually managed to back me into a corner. It helps that I was already in a corner when they sprung out of nowhere in fiery plumes. Point being; I was not enjoying it.

I decided, to hell with the consequences – "Reducto!"

The first turned purple, the second floated off the surface arse-first as if gravity had decided to disengage, and the third coughed out bubbles while antlers grew out of where its eyes should've been. One of them actually blew up properly. One out of four. Not bad.

Only once I'd dealt with them, did something else show up.

"Rage!  _What_  is going on here?"

Given our last encounter ended with me bleeding, I wasn't feeling very charitable. I stopped myself before I could blast it. A not-so-small, morbid part of me just wanted to see what happened, but that was trumped by the reasonable side that realised I needed its help.

"Sloth has trapped you. It is feeding off your life force."

No warning, no curtesy. Just dropped that one on me. I grated my teeth. "Great. Did it get the others too? Are they here?"

"Yes."

"Will you lead me to them?"

"You owe me, human."

"As if! You skewered me with magic rocks last time. Help me get out of this one and I'll call us  _even_."

It snarled angrily, spitting fire, and slithered off. Not the politest response, but not the rudest, either. I followed.

Two portals, an endless passageway and a gravity defying waterfall later, Anders found us.

He was a little haggard, and rather startled. "Andtraste's flaming knickers," he cursed, then pointed frustrated. "I  _just_  talked Tom out a mistake he would eternally regret. It was not pretty.  _Please_  tell me you realise that thing is a demon."

"And a pest and a grumpy asshole, indeed I do." I snuck a glance sideways. "Oh don't look at me like that, you know you deserved it."

Anders' eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously. He slashed an arm across his body as if he could wipe away the picture before him. It looked oddly transparent. "We  _are_  going to talk about this later. Now that we've met, we'll both disappear. We've all escaped the web, so the Sloth demon has to face us and–"

I felt an insistent tug, like a portkey, and when the world materialised again I was standing in a semicircle consisting of me, Anders, Ripped and presumably a sloth demon.

"Are you not happy? I could try harder," it rumbled persuasively, "if I must–"

Anders' fireball cut off the rest of that sentence pretty neatly. "I have been through too much to be eaten by the likes of  _you_. Harry, same trick!"

Most of his ice blast hit the demon full in the face, slowing it to a crawl, but not quite stopping that nasty snarl that twisted is blue-tinged body. Expectantly, I shouted, "Confringo!"

The monster vanished, and at first I thought I'd banished it completely, but then I noticed movement.

"A  _gerbil?!_ " Close enough. "Quick, someone squish it!"

It squealed loudly, in a disproportionately deep voice, when Ripped struck it. He turned back to us casually, wiping his blades and returning them to the sheaths on his back. He met my eyes, "You disturb me sometimes."

"Not my fault," I muttered a tad self-consciously. "My normal spells don't work properly in here."

…

We woke up for real almost eight hours after we'd been knocked out. That is, we woke in the middle of a chanting circle of swaying blood mages.

After a moment wherein my neurons struggled to find an alternative explanation to 'I must be dreaming', I realised that there was simply no explaining this. Groggy, clumsy fighting commenced. We won, despite our lack of technique, mainly because the voodoo doctors just sat there staring into the middle distance.

The blood I'd been sleeping on had dried and cracked all over my legs and cloths. Some of it was mine, most of it was not. A new layer had just been added, and mixed with the dirt it was horrible and sticky.

The things I put up with. "I expect gold for this one, Tom! It'd better the shiniest damn rock this side of The Pearl!" I stormed off, snagging Anders on my way. "You, me. River.  _Now_."

"You'll get no complaints from me!"

With a crack, I apparated us away.

…

"That Rage demon…" Anders started, voice promising a hint of steel.

"What about it?" I sighed, floating peacefully on the water. Though maybe that enjoyment factor was about to go down a little.

"Please tell me you didn't bargain anything with it. You can't trust them."

"I didn't give anything," I said honestly. "It hurt me last time, so I said if it could find you I wouldn't hold a grudge."

Anders choked on air. "'Last time'! It has hurt you, and you still think talking to it is a  _good_  thing?"

Perhaps not. "Helpful, though. In case I need a navigator," I persisted stubbornly. Bitterness leaked into my tone, "I'm an adult, I can make my own decisions, Anders."

"You can still make stupid decisions!" I heard a strangled groan. I tilted my head back to see him pulling at his hair. "Why you would  _insist_  on being this idiotic… All demons only want one thing, and to get that, everything that makes you a person has to die. It's a construct or anger and hate," he added fiercely.

"Rage isn't the same as hate."

"You think that makes a difference?"

"Only a little. Like I said, it's an asshole. I'm not about to sell my soul. We just survived an example of what a sloth demon can do, I'm not exactly keen to test any others. But…"

"Holy Maker what now?" he implored of the clouds, then he turned to me harshly, "But what?"

"Before Rage and I fought, he said something. About something only my Godfather and I have in common."

"Oh?" he sounded suspicious.

I sighed, dunked my head, and rolled upright. "Sirius' body was taken through the Fade a long time ago. His soul had to follow. He didn't die. Not properly. For… various reasons, I think his spirit is still there."

"And you want to find him?"

I rubbed a hand through my wet hair, bafflingly sheepish. "Will you help me?"

He seemed to realise he was battling against a wall. "We'll find professionals. Don't make  _any_  deals with demons. Don't even  _listen_  to them," he said with the longsuffering air of someone who has accepted that there is simply no stopping the madness, and only the slightest chance of mitigating the consequences.

…

**Day 120 – brunch time, still Denerim**

I'm grateful to have Anders around for many different reasons. I wouldn't say that he has good ideas, exactly, but he inspires brilliance delightfully.

We were dealing with an unwise mugger, almost had him too, but he was slippery. He'd socked me in the stomach and threw dirt in Anders' eyes. My friend swore as the man scrambled around the corner. "Bludger!" It was the first thing he'd said in days; most of his communication has been in looks that range from disappointed to worried, and strange eyebrow configurations.

"What'd you just say?"

"No idea," he admitted briskly. "Something I've heard you mention. Lacking a bit of context, but it's got a nice insulting ring to it."

"I guess they were pretty nasty… imagine an indiscriminately violent, flying bloodhound moving faster than any horse."

"Bloodhound?"

"Hmm… illegitimate lovechild of a mabari and a Templar."

It was a pretty innocuous conversation.

Now, you may not think that anything of intelligence stems from that, and you'd be just about right, which is why I'll be taking all the credit. It takes a lot of effort to decant such a topic and come out with genius. Bear with me.

Soon after lunch, I spotted the mugger's face in the crowd, getting ready for his next victims. Which reminded me of something else.

"Say, Anders, remember when you mentioned Bludgers?" An idea was building in my mind, gears were creaking away. Anders seemed to sense it, as he shifted warily. "Do you recall Quidditch? I'm sure I explained it." I asked, without waiting for his answer.

"The sport with the flying brooms. How could I forget?"

"Listen and learn, my young Apprentice. Quidditch is not  _just_  a sport; it's the pinnacle of magic achievement. The sanctity of sacredness. And it's out ticket to freedom." I finished theatrically. A nearby stall owner looked at me with pity and concern.

I ignored her artfully. Genius at work.

The interesting thing about Bludgers is that they're very difficult to magically tamper with, since the spell exploits the iron's ferromagnetic properties. Those flying obstacles of doom will pursue anything they're properly aimed at. That is just what we need. Iron isn't exactly scarce. Find some rocks, set the enchantments to target small vials of blood or Templars, and enjoy.

They're fast, hard to hit, and they hit hard. Also, hopefully being magically resistant would extends to anti-magic.

When the phylacteries aren't in the vault, they're in the hands of the Templars tracking me. I'd dismissed those circumstances as a possibility, since I really mustn't kill them. Fighting against a side who wants to kill you with less than lethal force is always difficult, more so when they can negate my stunners. I figured that there wasn't a way to smash it without getting caught, but I may have figured wrong.

I'll admit it. This whole business with the phylacteries – the hopeful stalking transcended by painful periods of waiting in boredom – just wasn't going to cut it. True, the door has to open sometime, but if the chances of me being there when it does are poor, then the chances of getting in are practically negligible.

I knew this. I've been perfectly aware why this operation has been taking so damn long, but I saw no alternative. A new perspective was just what I needed.

I really should've thought of this earlier. Once the first attempt didn't work, my second or third thought should have been to piss someone off. Well, it was, but I was focusing on the Templars when I really should have widened my scope. The professors were so adamant that knowledge of Quidditch wouldn't get us anywhere in life. Oh well, it'll annoy them now. The teachers would be dismayed, maybe resigned, that I'm using my knowledge for pure, mischievous evil. But, you know, one man's evil is another's creative solution.

…

**Day 121 – early, (hopefully) final day of all things Denerim**

We were armed with a bag full of golf-ball sized rocks each, all trembling and desperate to be set loose. We just had to wait for them to catch our scent. It couldn't be too long; they hadn't had a proper go at us for several days.

We weren't to be disappointed. They came charging in, as predicted.

"So we just point them in the right direction and run like the Revered Mother is catching up?"

"Pretty much."

Well, we managed half.

"Three," I said. We shared a look. His lips were pressed tight in a telling, restrained grin. "Two," feeling the anticipation bubbling, I, too, struggled to keep my face serious. "One," my muscles bunched in readiness. A second later, they strained, released – and sent the bag hurtling over the fence and into their path.

From the gaps in the panels, we saw the bags burst open. The iron rocks surged forth like a swarm of bees. Drunk, utterly deranged bees. The dodgy aerodynamics made for shaky flight, so most ended up ricocheting off walls, the each other, and people. In no time, they were bouncing all over the place, but all aimed at Templar or phylacteries. The sound of their startled cries was nice backing music to the wild pinballs.

A symphony of chaos. It was art.

Innocent passers-by froze, blinked, looked again. Jaws dropped.

I clenched my teeth and covered my mouth to at least muffle the giggles, since there was just no stopping them completely. It was too much. I was forced to lean on Anders to stay upright.

The moment of truth: someone tried a smite. For a dreadful moment, the Budgers careered off course, as if puzzled or purposeless, but in a matter of seconds they had recovered. I cheered.

They seemed to be picking on a young recruit the most, aiming for a pouch behind his breastplate. A lucky rock clonked the minion in the back of the head, sending him flying face down in the dirt. He growled, slashing wildly in all directions with his sword. He even hit one, and it shattered into a cloud of dust. Then, to my immense delight, most of the tiny pieces overcame the inertia and zoomed back for another go. He raised a steel gauntlet, fruitlessly, but little rocks made it past his defences and rattled around in his armour.

That'd be a pain for days to come; dust was a devil to get out of anything.

Something shattered, we could tell the second he realised; his face fell, and then thundered.

An older, cannier woman was actually thinking, "Catch them!" She ordered. Two rocks were already in her steel encased fists, twitching in vain.

"Harry." Somehow, Anders managed a grave tone. "I've just remembered what steel is essentially made of."

I met Anders' devilish eyes, my mind seconds behind. Realisation dawned, excitement  _burned_. "No freaking way."

Still partially convinced it was too good to be true, I summoned the Elder Wand, lined up a Bludger enchantment with her gauntlet, fired, and –CLANK– her fist changed trajectory and bounced off her helm.

The  _look_  on her  _face_.

That alley was a spectacle, to say the least. Rocks bouncing off helms with loud clangs, gauntlets slapping others wherever they could reach. Inevitably, while everyone else was looking on in horror, the Templars caught onto the fact that the two loonies breaking down in hysterical laughter may have been Up To Something. Or maybe they just took offense. It's hard to say, really, in my experience they usually resolve all issues with swords drawn.

"Run!"

Easier said than done, when even your knees are literally shaking with laughter and you're basically hyperventilating.

Somehow, I had to apparate without splinching myself seven ways from Sunday. I firmly latched onto Anders, attempted a deep breath, and turned on the spot.

We collapsed, a couple streets away, on the floor of our home on the roof.

"You're missing an eyebrow," Anders cackled. While drunk on endorphins, this was somewhat hilarious.

My hand reached up in reflex, feeling oddly smooth skin. Oops. I groaned and flopped dramatically back, calming slowly but surely. When I could speak again, all I could admit was; "Worth it.  _So_  worth it. My facial symmetry will understand."

I sighed. "Mischief managed," fell automatically from my lips.

"What was that?" Anders asked.

Something tickled my memory. It felt significant, but had faded with time. I don't really remember where I heard it. In the end, I just shrugged. "Seemed appropriate."

Then the relief caught up, and overturned anything else. "We did it. Smashed 'em."

"We're free," he said strangely, as if testing the taste of the phrase for authenticity. The most carefree smile graced his expression.

…

"The entire Templar order is spitting mad," Ripped greeted us from where he was inexplicably perched in the window frame. Weird, ninja spy. "Something about possessed magic rocks. I couldn't believe it at first, but then I remembered you two push the boundaries of all that can and should be done. The concept of discretion doesn't mean much to you, does it?"

"Only as an excuse for the faint hearted," I joked.

"The Boss isn't going to be keen to see you go, you realise." There was a warning in his voice. But was he here on behalf of a higher-up, or the goodness of his heart?

"We're not going to have a choice," Anders pointed out. "I believed you summarised it nicely with 'entire Templar order'."

Not much later, what seemed to be the entire Templar order, their recruits in training and all their cousins stormed the rooftops. It would only be a matter of time before they'd find us, the Boss's influence wouldn't be enough to curb their rage this time.

Wasting no time, Ripped dragged Anders in for a searing kiss, "It has been a pleasure knowing you."

I cleared my throat pointedly. Ripped rolled his eyes, "The same goes for you too, Potter, to my ceaseless surprise. Forgive me if I merely wish you good luck."

"Not at all, luck is good. Much appreciated," I smiled.

The heavy tramping was getting closer. "Go," the rogue said with finality. "I'll finish up here."

I grabbed Anders and turned on the spot, catching one last glimpse of my friend as he turned, a half smile still on his face. Huh, actually, yes, I guess we were friends after all. I hadn't noticed.

…

**Day 126 – late, Brecilian Forest**

The forest was dark and quiet, once the birds got over our abrupt arrival. The silence soon became heavy – maybe it was the lingering sadness, or expectation.

"I've never been free before," Anders mused. "I only remember being in the Circle, or running away from it. But I guess there's no need for that anymore."

That sounded like he was talking about leaving. I beat down the selfish pang in my chest; if that was what he wanted, it wasn't my place to sway him.

"It's harder than you'd think," I grinned lightly, without heart. "I wasn't free for a long time. First, it was a prophecy, but after fate had its say, I took up more responsibility because that was all I'd ever known. But you'll figure it out."

"Show me?" he offered.

"I'm going after Sirius," I warned.

"Then you'll need someone to hold you back before you can do anything especially stupid."

…

We went to the Forest near where I'd met the elves. That clan had had a werewolf problem because the ex-Keeper summoned a spirit from the Fade and put it in the body of a wolf. It sounded like they had some knowledge I could benefit from, if I was to find Sirius.

Anders watched me suspiciously.

"Construct of anger and hate, remember," he remarked disarmingly lightly.

"Rage, not hate." The response was well rehearsed.

"So the demon doesn't hate you. That just means it's more open to using you for nefarious ends," he muttered mutinously, glaring at the trees and kicking roots as if they'd personally wronged him.

"Undoubtedly." Of course I fear Rage's manipulation; I have since the beginning. I don't know whether I'm ready to completely buy into the idea that Fade denizens are all Evil, or if that's ignorance talking. But there's at least some validity to it. Still, I have to risk it and maintain faith in my ability to hit harder if a dodgy eventuality comes to pass. I will deal with it when I have more of an idea what I am up against.

Anders flipped sides like a coin, though tension still lingered in his words. "We're just going to stumble around until they shoot us?"

"I can find them."

"And then they will shoot us."

I sighed.

They tried to shoot us. Or rather, the scouting band threatened to shoot us and the youngest of their number was looking for an opening that he could get away with. I had a shield ready in case his fingers 'slipped'.

I made an effort to be polite, so I left most of the talking to Anders. He's got this friendly way with people that puts them at ease, whereas my first impression was that of a brain damaged man-child. And they still haven't forgotten. Neither have I, really. Merlin, I can't believe the things I did.

When we were finally granted an audience with Keeper Lanaya, we discovered that we'd underestimated the elves willingness to part with Dalish knowledge.

Anders offered to heal their sick, and I promised my completely unique information in herbology, spells and the entire Latin language, to little effect.

"We're not asking for knowledge, we're offering a trade. This way, we all benefit," Anders tried to reason against their prejudice.

"We do not want your shem ways. We desire only to uncover what your people took from us –" That's a  _great_  philosophy to die by in a changing world. "– No, you must do something for us to benefit our law, if we are to share it."

"What." I bit out, tolerance running thin.

We had to clear out an entire labyrinth of elven ruins of decaying werewolf corpses, demons, and everything else that'd moved in for a meal. Just getting there took days. It was impressive, though, albeit a bit on the decaying side of things.

There were some creative curses hiding wings of the complex, and one vanishing bookcase that really grated on my last nerve, but the magic was more similar to my own than anything I've seen in Thedas thus far, so unravelling the spells was a mere speed hump in the process. I uncovered hidden libraries and spiritual rooms and armouries and lost tombs – basically, did more to discover their culture than their combined efforts for the last century, so you'd think they'd be grateful. Nope.

The actual task itself wasn't too bad, when I could ignore the prissy guards breathing down my neck. Alone, it took me mere days. When he saw that I had everything more or less under control, Anders put his skills to use teaching about healing, which he can do even when faced with assholes, because he is just that nice.

Sitting in a nice, clean cavern that reminded me of an amphitheatre, Keeper Lanaya finally, grudgingly, taught us what Zathrian had discovered – how he summoned the spirit, how he bound it to a dying wolf, the specifics of the ritual that negated the sacrificial backlash.

Enlightening, but ultimately not very helpful. They had different opinions about demons and the Fade connection to magic, but for all their preaching, the Dalish didn't know much more about the Fade than I did.

I left in a black mood, not because of the little knowledge, but the story had evoked memories that I would much rather forget.

I resented Zathrian. He gained immortality, he became a leader, and power corrupted him, as I've found it inevitably does.

I deflected Anders' questioning, "I know what that kind of power does to people."

"Voldemort?"

I didn't answer.

…

**Day 128 – dinner, the Wilds**

"Good morning, Luna. What've you been up to?"

"Oh, hello, Harry. I was traveling. Did you know there is a country that makes pastizzis just like Daddy's? I imagine they smell amazing."

"Don't you what me to send you back yet? I though the living word didn't really interest the dead."

"I could never find it boring. And the loneliness isn't really a problem, I'm used to people ignoring me."

"You know you don't have to be alone. You can talk to me, or go back. I'm sure everyone else misses you."

"They know I am alright. I've spoken with them recently. Unlike you."

"Ouch."

"We worry, Harry. Won't you talk to them?"

"I just… I've lived too long, gone through too much. The Harry they remember… he's a fraction of my lifetime. I'm not their son, or the friend they met on the train, or their mentor. Luna, I'm not the same person I was. I haven't been for a long time."

"Of course you aren't. You're the Master of Death, the Conquering Hero, the boy who used to like treacle tarts. And just Harry. Shaped by what you had to be, stronger for the sum of your parts. They will understand."

…

**Day 130 – middle of nowhere (no really; that's on the map)**

Seeking out the Chasind was out next bet. All Circle mages had heard stories about their exploits, and their freedom. It was all scorned by the Chantry, naturally, but it was still an untouchable dream for many.

We left the forest and kept traveling south. Darkspawn had ravaged the land, corrupted the animals and burnt the trees. We hurried past that, sometimes travelling for days on end without sleep.

Now the Chasind, they're everything I imagined when I heard people whisper about their lack of refinement and civility. Except for the whole 'horsemen of the apocalypse' vibe they had going. I would've thought horses were a hindrance in marsh, but Denerim maps were about as reliable as Denerim gossip. It was a bit soggy, but most of the land to the south was frosty grassland.

Ferelden weren't interested in the savages, or at least, that's when the nobility claimed after navigating an army through the wilds proved too troublesome. So the Chasind had been left in their isolation, to grow their unique culture. Bearing that in mind, they were surprisingly open with strangers.

Well, they did shoot at us, but there were no hard feelings. I get the feeling we're not the first visitors they've had.

"I like this place," I decided.

"Look at them," Anders breathed. The camp was awash of chaotic activity. Horses roamed between leaning tents that sheltered chatting men and women. Children, made fluffy and round by the furs they were bundled in, bounced excitedly around and through everything. Anders vividly watched one particular group of girls playing chase with the added incentive of tag-by-lightning. They shrieked and giggled until they were out of sight.

Our entrance was noted. Curious adults tracked our progress and their offspring followed more literally. "Hello," I smiled at a boy that ducked past our entourage and tugged on my shirt, at the goading of his friends. He looked two parts thrilled and three parts terrified. Our guards also stopped warily. "What's your name?"

"A'shadd," he whispered into his coat.

"Here you go, A'shadd," I conjured a sparkly wizard hat, adorned with huge red feather, and presented is solemnly.

"Softy," Anders elbowed me, grinning.

The man who had tried to shoot me now rested a hand on my shoulder warmly, "As long as you give freely for the happiness and wellbeing of the tribe, you are welcome here."

On our first night, they held a feast to celebrate our visit. I got perhaps too involved with their drinking games and strong beer. I didn't wake with a killer hangover, but only because I was still drunk. In my inhibited state, I may have gone overboard showing off to my eager, pre-teen audience, but they very appreciative of my fireworks. Or so I'm told.

The next night, they held another feast (sensing a pattern), and the cycle would've repeated but for Anders' voice of reason. He said one of us should be sober enough in the morning to meet with the tribal elders, and then he went and got drunk before I could.

…

**Day 131 – Chasind camp**

Their mages were free, their grasp on magic rather… interpretive, but advanced in their own way. Probably the most advanced part of their explanation was how simply they could tell it.

The Chasind believe that there are are two worlds; the physical and the other. If you are made of the physical, you cannot directly influence the other, and if you are of the other, you cannot influence the physical. Beings can cross from one to the other, but they must acquire assistance from a native to change either reality. The other is, most fundamentally, a place for the dead. (Now, why did no one mention that  _before_?)

The worlds exist in the same place and time. The barrier is intangible and weak. We all must cross it when we let go of our mortal bodies, and become spirits, but many wish to come back to the physical realm and turn bitter. After too long in the spirit world, they forget their humanity.

Everything in the Fade is reflective of emotions and wants. They mimic what they have seen in minds of mortals. Spirits have no imagination, they certainly cannot compete with the complexity of life in the other, so they must travel to the physical to experience it. Spirits are content, demons are a struggle, an inner struggle. Demons go after mages because they want imagination.

"It's different to what the Chantry teaches. I wonder how much they got right," Anders mused later.

The knowledgeable elders were bemused with the direction my questioning went, they cautioned me against playing with it, but they believe in sharing knowledge and did so without reservation.

"If you think this is such a bad idea, why did you teach him?" Anders groused. Their nervousness was making him even more uneasy.

The old, grey woman met my eyes, a strange expression on her face. "Children learn by making mistakes. It is their nature to try and to fail, just like it is our nature to help them fix it, so they learn wisdom. They tend to feel they are invincible, and wisdom is knowing that we are not."

I tried not to get aggravated by that.

…

**Day 139 – Chasind camp**

We've been here for over a week. It's been a busy holiday. Each morning we work to prepare tents and cloths, and tend to the young, old, and the animals. They don't let us use magic; such tasks apparently teach patience and respect. Working with my hands has become calming, I admit. In the afternoons, we alternatively learn and teach.

On the third day, we asked to join a hunt. In response we were escorted far from the camp, until the sparse tree line became more substantial woodland, where we were told to sit and learn from the animals. After two hours, we assumed we were being punished. After two days, we revised it to torture. On the seventh day of staring at various bold birds, bears, and everything in between, we came to appreciate how they moved and behaved. We still didn't enjoy it.

Then they told us to change, and it all made sense.

I picked a sparrow – its erratic, mad flight was something I was sure I could enjoy. Anders paled at the idea, picking a jungle cat instead.

"I can't believe I'm doing this. This is exactly the type of thing the Circle mean when they talk about heresy." In other words, Anders was delighted.

"I image that's what they call everything they can't moderate."

The incantation was long, but we'd done that hard part. "It's not so bad," Anders, now with a tail and two out of four paws, agreed. "The concentrating is a bit of a stretch." He changed his ears, but they remained still and on the side of his head. "Maker damn it! Oh, that was loud."

I twittered a birdy snort, then changed back because laughing at him felt far more effective when he wasn't a giant. "You're thinking too much. Just desire to achieve what you saw. Come on, you  _know_  cats backwards and forwards."

"Easy for you to say so, you've done it before."

"Not really. The stag is my Animagus form. It's more about soul searching and unlocking the inner animal than observation. This is more like self-transfiguration."

"Sounds tricky."

"Not really. If it was only difficult, more people would do it. It'd be a mark of status and power. No, like anything else, there are consequences. You have to put aside a lot of your humanity, you can't just stuff it back in the closet afterwards; traits flow both ways. Your hearing might strengthen, your hair colour might change, that kind of thing. Most people find being anything less than fully human a little freaky."

When we'd managed shape shifting, they celebrated our open mindedness and acceptance of their traditions with more alcohol. The next day, they let Anders and I join a hunt.

They don't use magic to kill – spells make a mess of food. The warriors with their bows do that. The mages track the quarry as animals for speed and cover, then drive them to where the hunters are waiting. War paint ensures that the actual animals are the ones being shot at.

Fun and exciting doesn't do it justice. I flew with a mixed flock of crows, eagles, and jays until the raptors spotted a herd of wild pigs. Then Prongs ran with bears, wolves, horses and my rudimentary deer brain wasn't keen on the many and various predators, but the familiar smell of one spotty yellow feline calmed him. We raced until the squealing stopped, and then some more.

…

**Day 144 – Chasind camp**

Intertribal relations were a low point. Most of these peoples' worldly problems were their dubious neighbours. Their squabbles were legendary, most literally stemmed from petty fights and lingered for generations.

That's not to say they didn't try. The tribe held bimonthly meetings with their closest neighbour to the east, at the border between their lands.

At one such meeting, we met a surprise. He greeted us very formally, in the Ferelden way. Anders had a minor panic attack at the unexpectedness of it. The man was perhaps thirty, and had a noble air about him, despite his unruly beard and the crutch he limped around with.

"Forgive me," he sounded like he actually meant that, "but have you news of Ferelden? My men were killed by the darkspawn, if not for these kind people I would have joined then. Still, I have been regrettably indisposed for months."

"We've been through Denerim and Redcliffe recently," I hedged.

His eyes lit apprehensively, "Well you must've heard about Ostagar. My troops and I were to join the King. There should have been a battle."

"Oh," Anders inhaled. The man could tell, surely, that this wasn't going to be pretty. "Why don't you sit down?"

We told him about the battle, the death of the King, the hierarchy turmoil and ensuing civil war for the throne, Loghain's response to the Wardens, the two that were left. His face got steadily paler, his hands shook.

"Aedan, did you say?" he interrupted sharply.

"Yes, Cousland. Grumpy fellow, quite buff, carries a big sword. You know him?"

A small smile graced his face. "He is my brother. He had a temper, but I would hardly call him grumpy. His good humour was much loved in Highever." He frowned then. "He should be there still, helping the Teyrn, our Father."

My heart fell for him. "Highever belongs to the Howe's, as does Denerim. There were… suspicious circumstances that all were forbidden to talk about. It was most likely a coup. I– I'm sorry," I added inadequately.

"Maker preserve us. My father would never give up the teyrnir. If that is true, they must be… I am likely the rightful Teyrn of Highever. I must get back there." Fergus gathered himself and rose with purpose.

"Are you kidding me? You can barely walk, you won't last five minutes around Howe!" Doctor Anders reprimanded.

"The best thing you can do for your people is to recover," I spoke over the noble's protests. "Wrong or not, Howe has an army. While you're alive, you're a threat, which is bad for Howe and hazardous for you. You need rumours about your survival and Howe's actions to circulate, and you need to  _not_  be there when his soldiers chase them up, ok? Just stay here. Why don't you write a note to your brother? He'll flay Howe's reputation and build your support base on his travels. See here, there's this neat trick I can do with wild birds, especially owls…"

…

**146 – Chasind camp**

I took a deep breath. "Anders."

A squishy lump from the bedroll next to mine twitched. "Yeah?"

"Tomorrow, I'm going to try and find Sirius. I know what to do, now." I have for a while, since I heard the connection to Death. I've just been less than willing to interrupt our haven. Still, I feel we have lingered too long. Or maybe I'm just impatient and would rather have it dealt with.

He was silent, forebodingly, for a long while. "You should stop this, now."

"We've been over this," I said warningly. I would not change my mind, but it seemed like we were having this argument again anyway.

Anders rolled over suddenly, eyes glinting harshly in the dark. "He died, that's what people do."

I flinched, for a moment speechless at his atypical coldness, but I recovered twice as heated. "I've told you; he  _didn't_! I spent years of my life researching the Veil, he could be stuck between living and dead. I just… I need to know. I won't leave him with half a life, don't ask me to condemn him to that."

"This could kill you. Or worse."

"That's why I'm doing it here, in camp, around people that can help if it goes wrong."

"That doesn't make it any better!" Anders flung the furs off him and stomped out of the tent.

I didn't sleep much, hurtful words still ringing in my head. Anders didn't return that night. I had to talk myself out of running after him several times. Mainly, I clung to my anger, but no small part was terrified that'd he simply hadn't stopped running. If I didn't get up, I didn't have to face that possibility just yet.

At dawn, I could no longer talk myself out of it. To my relief, and subsequent denial, Anders was still around. Stewing all night hadn't helped his mood any.

I asked the elder mages to watch over me and, gravely, they did so. Then I slept and plunged into the Fade.

The landscape was empty, thankfully. I called the Resurrection Stone to my hand and turned it, "Sirius Black."

The Fade hissed rebelliously. Purple mist spluttered indignantly, the freaky spires got just that little bit sharper.

The Ring tugged on my grip, and I grinned ruefully. He was there, somewhere, and since he hadn't appeared before me, he couldn't be dead.

I donned the Cloak comfortably and the Wand a little less agreeably, consolidating my power as the Master of Death. Death is the one constant everywhere there is life. Here, in this realm of the dead, I still had influence.

"Take me to Sirius Black." The landscape shifted a little. An illusion lifted. "You  _will_  obey."

Slowly, a huge statue brought its arms down to create an arch. Stone flaked off the sides to fill a swirling portal. I briskly walked up to it and stepped through, into a dream.

It was Hogwarts as Sirius remembered it – full of life, pranks and very little hardship. He was surrounded by three other boys. One was my father, it had to be; he was all but my reflection. I'd forgotten that. All their faces had been blurred by time. I struggled for a moment, to place the other two; Lupin and traitor (name?). They were laughing together. Sirius was younger and more carefree than I had ever seen.

Regretfully, I dispelled the dream, and left a slightly older Sirius staring confusedly around the bleak landscape. I tugged off the Cloak.

"Harry!"

I braced myself, emotionally and physically, just in time. "Sirius,  _god_ , I missed you."

He was warm and solid, it was almost like a real hug but there was something not quite there. I just took in his presence for a long time. After a while, he held me at arm's length. "It feels like it's been so long since I've seen you."

I grimaced. "It has been. You've been dreaming. You still are, sort of."

Sirius frowned worriedly, pulling me closer again, "I really haven't been there for you, have I? Some godfather I turned out to be."

"You were the best," I shot back automatically.

He barked a laugh, then sobered. "Am I dead?"

I hesitated, but he had to know, "You're in between. You should be able to choose. I don't know how we'd go about that actually, there's usually a train somewhere but, well, we're not on Earth and they run reality a little differently here."

He gaped. Purely to preserve his sanity, his mind latched onto the part he could comprehend. "I just pick? Live or die?"

If only it were that simple. "I suppose the first option would be a little more complicated. You don't have a body to return to. If you passed on… you'd see mum and dad and everyone again. For real, no more dreams. You could move on to the next great adventure, as they say."

A wistful look past over him. "What about you?"

"That adventure isn't for me. I'm still the Master of Death, Sirius, I can't die. I've lived centuries already." And Merlin, that hurt.

He graced me with pity and no small amount of horror. Normally that would annoy me, but it was a relief to have someone who could truly appreciate it. "The guys can wait another lifetime for me to show. I never really got to be you godfather, did I? So how do I go about living again, pup?"

…

I returned to the physical world with Anders' anxious face hovering over mine. When my eyes opened, he exhaled with gusto. "You are going to be the death of me."

I sat up with a groan, feeling remarkably worn despite my nap. It was dark. Night? Not quite, but we were back in the tent. "Oh Father, you shouldn't have waited up. I didn't even speak to a single demon." He was right to be suspicious. "But I'm going to resurrect my godfather." My theory was, if I said it fast enough, it'd be like pulling off a band aid. In practice, it was more like poking a dragon.

Anders sunk his face into his hands and prayed to Andraste for patience, which was better than the alternative.

"Why do I even have to say this? What happened to my life?  _You must not_   _revive dead people_." He rounded on me severely. "Promise me, Harry."

Taken aback, I stammered out a vague; "Yeah, alright, but–"

"No, that isn't enough this time! Swear it! Blood magic or spirits or whatever you  _think_  will work – that's a one-way track. Maker, if you won't stop this for me, at least do it for yourself."

"It wouldn't be a true resurrection or necromancy or anything. Really, he's dreaming, but he has no body to go back to," I explained earnestly.

Weeks of pent up frustrate with my mission finally burst. "Stop dancing around this! I know he's special to you, but he's an abstract idea that is stranded in the Fade. You need to accept that he is gone and move on!"

"I need him! My life fell to pieces when he left."

"Getting him back won't change that!"

"You can't know that," I muttered petulantly.

"Neither can you! You're obsessed! This isn't good for you, Potter." The air hummed with accidental magic and electricity. He was truly furious. His mind seemed to go where his magic was leading. "Maybe I can knock some sense into you!"

My lip curled contemptuously and I was spitting out words before I'd gathered enough sense to stop them. "I doubt that."

A pause. A power surge. I waited stubbornly for the worst static shock in my life to be delivered by fist, partly to prove I could take it, a little because I probably deserved it. But it never came.

Snarling, he channelled the charge into the ground, and the fight just drained out of him. "I'd need Andraste's own fortitude to make a dent in that much stupid."

I relaxed, just a little. "He's not dead," I repeated softly. It was starkly quiet after all our shouting. "I won't need to use blood magic, or deal with demons, or consult questionable Tevinter literature."

"It's still a problem of logistics. What are you going to do? Stick him in someone else body? That either makes him a murderer or an abomination, you can't tell me he'd want that," Anders argued, finishing a tad triumphantly. I dutifully overlooked it.

"No," I realised suddenly. "We just need a dog."

**...**

**Day 146 – Chasind camp** ****

Anders blinked. Cogs turned. "His animagus form, right? A second body… Ah, that's nifty."

There's a whole bunch of complicated transfiguration and a healthy amount of soul magic that I'm not keen to dig into, but that is the essence of it.

My eyebrows climbed. He often acts so glib and self-absorbed; it's enough for the untrained observer to overlook how Anders is one of the most ingenious mages to survive the Circle system. I hadn't told him all that much about the Animagus transformation, but he was still able to put the pieces together. That transformation doesn't just rearranging your body shape into something different, it's more like a swap. He is a dog, he is a person. Give him one, he gains the other.

Well, theoretically.

"Under five minutes. Not bad, for a rookie."

Anders scowled, a little, at my half-hearted insult. "I hope you're sure. I'd so hate to curse this poor soul to fetch sticks and sniff balls for the rest of his life," he shot back dryly.

"There is no certainty in this area. Soul magic is madness like you wouldn't believe," I groaned, rubbing my temples to ward off the headache that was summoned by the very thought of the ensuing complications. An Animagus isn't totally human –somewhat like a species in of itself– so neither a dog nor a man is ideal, but one is hardly worse than the other. The tricky part comes in the moral details.

Sirius could, potentially, inhabit a canine body that was alive or newly dead. The body will have to be in good condition – liveable condition, which is tricky in itself. Generally, things don't die for no good reason; souls depart because the body cannot support them. If Sirius tried to move into a mangled corpse, he just go the same way as the original soul or become something even more unnatural. It seems that a killing curse to a healthy dog would be the best option, but that invokes a whole slew of additional issues. Firstly, Sirius' conscience would not tolerate the cold-hearted murder of a dog, so there is a chance his soul would reject the body. But that isn't even the worst of it.

See, there is a reason we aren't constantly knee high in demon occupied corpses; they need to be summoned. If a body has no soul it is purely of the physical world and it will leave no footprint in the Fade, making it more or less impossible to find from that side of the veil. And I can't summon him, either. If Sirius was properly dead, that might actually work. But if he _were_  actually dead, this situation wouldn't have arisen; he'd have a nice spot in the other side, the damn Ring would be enough to call upon him like any other completely dead person.

It will be more or less impossible to leading Sirius through the Fade's terribly illogical geography to the dog unless the dog is alive, and thus we enter abomination territory. Unless, that is, we use the Zathrian method. He used elven lore to combine a spirit from the fade with a wolf. Now, both spirit and wolf must've been amenable to this change or the inner fighting would have soon torn the body apart. Normally they would not agree, but Zathrian linked them to his life, and was then able to use his all-consuming vengeance to assign the two personalities common ground.

The loophole: if there is no dog soul there need be no cooperation between them, and therefore no linking to the creator's lifespan. I would not choose to subject Sirius to that.

Zathrian's ritual will give Sirius a ticket into the dog body, but it isn't ideal – I have to enter the Fade while conscious, and allowances have to be made for Sirius' being a little more human than spirit. Tweaking it will be an absolute nightmare.

I feel that I have been circling my own reasoning. The dog has to be alive to be found, dead to be occupied, and we mustn't kill it. Ugh. Catch 22, am I right?

…

"I won't fight a dog for the possession of its body, Harry, that's a little too messed up, even for me."

"I know. I'm working on it."

"But-"

"Trust me, I've got a few ideas."

…

**Day 147**

I explained the situation to Anders. He's convinced I know what I'm talking about, so he's on board and already spewing out useful native knowledge. His agreement to a plan involving a loss of life (at least until I can circumnavigate that) is more than I expected. I'm a little suspicious.

"Use lyrium to power the elven ritual. It's the longer and trickier road to more power, but overall much less… fraught with blood and demons, both of which are so tricky to get out of cloth." Oh, and he thinks he's funny. Merlin, what is he plotting?

"It might be possible…" I mused. Minerals are used to collapse the power surge of the ritual – "Lyrium _is_  a mineral, right? Right, good." – but the magical properties are bound to destabilise the time dilation effect so it could very literally take me forever to reach the dog spirit unless that annoying degraded energy can be harnessed for a useful function. Any tampering with that would just make a power feedback loop, or would it just turn to heat? Very suddenly and with great gusto, probably – yes, either way spontaneous combustion is going to be an issue. A painful one. The right runes would stabilise it, even better if I can channel the lyrium magic linguistically, its distilled form is a liquid ore. I imagine it would work as ink.

Meanwhile, Anders counted clouds. I blinked and he startled overdramatically. "Welcome back among the living. Do share your thoughts, oh but, ah, spare me the long story, I'm sure the abridged version will do."

I sighed. "Essentially, I might be able to power this venture. I can write the runes in lyrium, and the right combination will stop the thing blowing up in my face. That'll take some experimentation."

"The Chantry control the lyrium trade and by policy they don't share. We should head to the source – to Orzammar." He clamped his hands together, then shooed me towards our bags, evidently afraid of how many more grey hairs he would accumulate if I had time to stop and think over the process more thoroughly.

…

"There will be consequences, you know that, right?"

"There are always consequences."

…

_*The reader is fascinated by roughly drawn assemblies of symbols, for they are clearly foreign and the powerful strokes seem to exude strength beyond the measure of their small stature. But the words that catch their eye are on the next page; it is a small squashed title, likely added as an afterthought, that reads 'Fade Theory'. The drawings are annotated strangely, the topics discussed are beyond the reader's comprehension. When the reader speaks, it is with obvious excitement, and they call for the others to be summoned.*_

…

**Day 150 – Orzammar**

As we approached the last dwarven strong hold, it became apparent that all was not well in paradise. Merchants fretted about stifled trade and unstable politics; I heard more about the unprecedented rise in spice prices than I did the Blight. By the sounds of it, no one was being emitted while the nobility engaged in a bureaucratic pissing contest. The subterranean city was suffering losses to finances and morale that it couldn't afford. Progress had slipped backwards with the throne sitting empty.

The guards didn't even look at us twice before telling us to bugger off. That was unfortunate, but not wholly unprecedented. I've been banned from entire cities before, although it's usually cities I've visited that take such measures. But there are ways around those.

We lingered a short distance away, while I layered compulsions on a piece of parchment.

Anders glanced slyly at me from the corner of his eye. "You could pass as a dwarf."

I paused in my work, "You do not get to make height jokes, I don't heckle you about ugly mug, do I?"

He shot back something to the effect of me running out accurate adjectives too quickly, but I wasn't paying attention because at that moment, an official objected to our continued presence and decided to tell us to get off his doorstep, though in fewer words.

I handed the stocky fellow the parchment before he could get too far into his rant or reach for his dwarf-sized battle-axe. And by that, I mean the axe was the size of the dwarf, not that it was scaled down to the proportions you'd expect.

He glared suspiciously, and I frowned a little – the compulsions weren't taking very well.

"Who did you say your family was, again?" he uttered gruffly.

"It's just here," I reached over and forced more magic into the spell. Finally, his eyes clouded over properly.

"Everything seems to be in order. Welcome back. Atrast vala."

We marched past the guards and left many off them blinking bewilderedly behind us. They would soon forget our presence. Or at least that was what was supposed to happen. Anders tells me that dwarves are pretty resistant to magic, so who knows.

We started down into the inky depths of the mountain. "There. Easy." I said with satisfaction.

"What did you do?"

I wavered for a moment, but eventually gave in. "They're convinced that we're locals."

"You  _did_  pass as a dwarf!"

"Shut it."

He cackled. Amusement with a hysterical note to it. "There are so many holes in this plan. We'll probably be in prison by the end of the week."

I didn't disagree.

…

**Day 153**

Orzammar is looks to be housed in an enormous magma chamber. The cavernous ceiling hovers nearly beyond sight above the city, which is carved into the side of the mountain. Magma enters through two lava tubes either side of the city, divided by a spire of rock that juts out into the centre of the chamber, heating and lighting the city from bellow. It's the most freaking amazing place I've ever seen. That's saying something.

We didn't face any problems from the populace, as they assumed we had permission to be there. People were quite nice to us. We were offered discounts for wares and ale, and given unprecedented access to the Shaperate. Anders and I were both quite boggled by it, until one woman talked too much and we realised that everyone had assumed that we were with the only other group of non-dwarves. That was not the most pleasant way to find out that the Wardens were in the city.

I didn't know what to think. The last time I'd seen them, it'd ended in a fight and I was sent to the Circle like bad rubbish no one wanted to deal with. That was a dick move, but if I took revenge for every time the world screwed me over, by now there'd be no world left. I'm not that worked up about it, now that time has passed and the Circle is long behind me.

That said, revenge is best served cold, to ensure it comes as a surprise.

Just leaving my options open.

I wasn't exactly keen to run into them again – who knew what they'd do (or, for that matter, what I'd do)? Or what they'd think. Merlin, I sent the last book I wrote to Zevran, didn't I? I bet he's managed to get into it by now. That surely won't have improved their opinion of me.

I took to glancing around a little more, taking the less used paths, strategically picking my seats in the Shaperate, and each night I secured my room before going into the Fade to talk with Sirius. Standard appropriate paranoia. (Note: Rage has been more absent. When present, it is oddly pleased. Probably up to something. Pay particular attention to feelings around it, allow it no influence.)

…

**Day 155**

It doesn't surprise me that the assassin heard of these mysterious unknown followers of the Wardens and decided to investigate personally. What  _did_  surprise me, was that he chose to confront me in a crowded pub.

I jumped rather badly as the lithe elf slid casually into the seat opposite me. Determined not to be the first to talk, and not knowing what I would say anyhow, I masterfully steadied my beating heart and conveyed my curiosity through a series of artful eyebrow manipulations.

Zevran sighed theatrically, just as I remembered, "I have now travelled the whole of the south and still have found nothing quite like Antivan liquor." He held up his tankard and shook it a little, watching in morbid fascination as the strange thick liquid sloshed around.

"I confess," he continued pleasantly. I could pick no deception in his voice, but that could be because he is a professional. "When I heard that two new humans had arrive in Orzammar, I was expecting either spies or dignitaries from our dear Loghain.  _More_  dignitaries, that is, and by nature more proficient than the last lot."

The noise was loud around us. We had to speak up to be heard, but our words would be lost on anyone that got too inquisitive. It also served as a reminder that this place was relatively safe and full of witnesses. Really, speaking to me here was a very considerate gesture. Or it could have been a crafty way to make me let down my guard and spill my guts (figuratively or literally).

I decided to test his motives. "We snuck in," I revealed. "The libraries here are the best informed on lyrium this side of Tevinter, plus merchants have access to vials of the stuff." If the Wardens wanted us gone, it would now be a simple matter of letting someone important know. That would clarify things for me.

"Lyrium? Whatever are you researching that for?" he inquired.

I shrugged dismissively. "It has potential. Could save the life of someone I know."

"The other handsome mage, perhaps?" his grin turned into a leer. I rolled my eyes at the reappearance of the appalling assassin I was expecting.

"Anders? No. He's helping though."

"It sounds as if you have been busy, amico mio. You simply must tell me more about it."

And then what probably should have been an interrogation took a more honest turn, to a conversation between friends.

As it happens, the whole troupe has not been together in Orzammar for some time. Cousland is chasing up rumours of a lost Paragon in the deep roads in order to give someone the authority to acknowledge his Warden treaties. He's not expected back for a few weeks. The only ones who remain are Morrigan, who was too sick to journey in such a place, Alistair, because Cousland isn't all that optimistic and doesn't want Ferelden to lose all its Wardens at once, and Zevran, to ensure that Alistair doesn't otherwise manage to get himself killed. I noted the assassin's distaste as he spoke of his two companions. His contempt of Alistair had reached new heights after some recent incident, and I'm not sure what his issue with Morrigan is, only that it is truly substantial.

"Did you like my little journal?" I broke the comfortable silence.

"Ah, that. Yes, it was truly fascinating, thank you."

Bugger. I guess stupidity is too much to ask for in some people. "Fascinating?" I drawled, "You don't think I'm crazy?"

"On the contrary, I am certain you are at least a little crazy." He winked. I snorted, supressing a grin. Amused, though not certain why. "But that book helped me understand. I believe that you are, as you claim, over six centuries old, and that many of those years have been hard. I was uncertain for a while, but, although Master of Death you may be, death is not something you deal out to those you meet." He lent back, completely relaxed. "You are far more settled, now. It is good."

"If you say so," I closed the subject, but for once I didn't ignore the light feeling that his works raised. Instead, I called for another drink and launched into an unbelievably embarrassing tale of a sheep, tequila, and a multi-million dollar replica chariot.

In hindsight, that last drink may not have been a good idea.

…

"I ran into Zevran just now," I announced upon arriving back at the inn. I stumbled, just a little. The doorway made for a good support.

That caught his attention. Anders shot up, automatically looking me over in full healer mode. "What happened?" he asked while lifting my arm, as if I'd managed to hide an injury there.

I bore his poking dutifully. "We talked. We drank. It went well, I think. No poison, at least. He, Morrigan and Alistair are in the city, and of them only Alistair might object to our presence."

"I still don't like this. They turned you over to the Templars once, who's to say they won't do it again?"

"There are no Templars for miles. At most, they'll have us kicked out. You can meet them, if you want. That might make you feel better." Well, in as much as meeting an assassin  _can_  inspire confidence.

…

**Day 156**

"Morrigan," I greeted my raven stalker with a nod. "It's good to see you." It was only a slight lie.

The witch assumed her normal form, arms crossed. Her eyes roamed. I felt like a sack of meat, or maybe a pig set for slaughter. Finally, she nodded more or less politely. "I suppose," she granted.

With that significant hurdle achieved, we diverged from the topic and I wound up teaching her how to turn Alistair into an ass. Turns out I hold a grudge as well as the next bloke.

…

"I ran into Morrigan just now. It went well."

Anders rushed up, straight past me towards the door, as if to check that the city was still standing.

…

"I ran into Alistair just now. Or should I say, he ran into me. It was hilarious."

Anders healed my hoof-shaped bruises with a heavy sigh.

…

**Day 166**

"You like to think you're good at drinking. You're really, really not." I watched as more dwarven ale disappeared. It's strong stuff, he was doing pretty well to survive it.

"I could drink you under the table," Anders declared with utter confidence.

"Oh please. In drinking, it's not the thought that counts. It's the thought that gets you waist deep in trouble, then buggers off once you've had one too many," I insisted.

"Sound advice. I have come to expect such from you, despite your intelligence."

That, I was not expecting. My eyes closed in an attempt to gracefully regain my composure. "Morrigan. How…. kind of you to say."

"You sound ever so pleased."

"Thrilled, I assure you. But I was only expecting our friendly neighbourhood assassin."

Zevran, it appeared, was not pleased either. "She was quite… tenacious."

"You are not here because you enjoy drinking or social drinking or just, you know, company in general," Anders accused.

"Perceptive of you," Morrigan drawled. "Indeed, I came for another matter. There is an old woman of the Wilds, Flemeth. She has extended her life beyond the mortal calling and must be stopped."

The name was vaguely familiar. "Hang on, isn't she your mother?"

The witch soured. Apparently I wasn't supposed to know that. My grin widened and my eyes narrowed. "We just came from the Wilds. I have the craziest stories about your mum. And I'm inclined to believe them." Them over you, was the loud subtext.

"She's cheated death."

I hate it when people try to manipulate me through my position. Absolute fastest way to piss me off. My tone was sweat enough to require a dental plan. "That's above my payroll. I don't even get loyalty benefits."

"Should you not care? You claim to be the Master, after all." Oh sure, my story is believable when they  _want_  something.

"I'm not worried about her living forever. Everything ends. Even if she makes it to the end of the universe, she will be finished when it is."

"And what of you? Is this the fate that awaits you also?"

'It's a work in progress', was prepared and waiting to be spat out, but to my surprise, I found that I was not in such a hurry to die just yet. After a pause that lasted just a little too long, I grumbled, "See yourself out, Morrigan."

"Master of Death?" Anders repeated inquisitively.

Zevran brightened, suddenly far more interested. "You do not know?" He looked between Anders and I, "Truly?"

"I haven't spread it around. Not after just how well it went last time," I ground through gritted teeth.

Zevran threw an arm around my shoulders, "Our friend here is an immortal, ancient, world travelling mage. The Master of Death. Did never wonder at his many stories or skills?" He added scornfully.

I shoved him. "Don't be unpleasant. You'd never have guessed if I'd kept my fat mouth shut."

Anders scowled at the arm around me, and then at the assassin attached to it. "I'm not  _dense,_ elf. I figured he's much older than he looks. I never asked because some secrets are kept for a reason, they are  _not yours to give_." That… that was new. Understanding and defense? Unprecedented. "Just… how old, exactly?"

"Six hundred years," I still braced for suspicion, but he just nodded distractedly. Encouraged, I continued, "The name's a little off-putting. It isn't even very accurate. Master of Death, my arse, more like Death's Whipping Boy."

"I am not drunk enough to hear this."

I gave a wiry smile, all sharp edges and cold feeling. "And I am not nearly drunk enough to tell it. I'll get us another round. Try not to kill each other while I'm gone."

There is one story I don't tell often. It isn't my favourite. It is difficult to for me to put into words. I try to keep it in that dusty untouched corner of my memory, but too often it dances into conscious thought. It is intangible in my head, but still so close. Still, to call upon it and try to translate it into words…

Anders and Zevran received a faltering and unrevised version, but they were trusted with more of me than anyone has seen in a long, long time.

I come from a world that is not much like this one, for all its similarities. I had a fairy tale life; an amazing job, I married a girl I loved and we had three children. All around me, for the first time in my life, was love and family and calm.

In one fell swoop, I lost it all. My loving godfather disappeared from existence, and then we were exposed. Magic was hidden from the people without it, but everything ends; the good things in particular seem to have a way of finishing too soon. Our secret was uncovered, and we were  _terrified_. In school, we were still taught about how the muggles burnt witches alive. But they had progressed far, far past pitchforks and torches by that point. We wouldn't have survived a fight – we knew that. Luckily, we didn't have to. There were extremists that objected, or course; various religious groups had rarely been so united until we presented ourselves. But for the most part people were fascinated, or at the very least opposed to genocide. There was concord, if not peace. Still, it was a huge adjustment. Our culture was turned on its head in a few weeks. Bad got worse.

I was born to be a leader. Didn't mean I had to be any good at it, but nevertheless, circumstances left me little choice. I was given the potential at eighteen months of age, and I had put together an army at fifteen. Back then, there was a madman out for the world, but that wasn't why there was a war. Voldemort didn't intimidate people into laying down their lives for him; he had power because there were problems. I killed him when I was seventeen – dealt with the beast, but not the issues.

When we were exposed, those problems surfaced in a very bad way. I was promoted to head Auror to deal with them. I was just a man, but they needed a hero. And the extremists needed a target. They killed my wife and my eldest son. There wasn't enough left to bury.

After that, I fought the injustice more personally in court and on the field. I fought like a man who was looking forward to seeing his family again. So I guess my people got their hero, didn't they? The man certainly didn't survive.

I toppled the terrorists. Brought the entire organisation to its knees. My people saw justice. They cheered. It was vengeance, of course, but I didn't see the difference. Didn't much care for it.

Then I got elected. My political enemies called me a machine. My allies said I was efficient. The people just appreciated that their hero got stuff done. And that I did. I had to plough through the political slog of an administrative system to do it. I was on my way to dictatorship before I knew it. I was a good leader, at first: reformed the education system, cleared the corrupt elite out of the government, improved opportunities and supported collaboration with muggle scientists and engineers. I stayed in office for a long time. My trusted friends moved on and retired. The corruption crept back. No place should have a ruler that cannot die. Regimes need  _change_ to fight corruption. From my seat at the top I lost sight of how many lives I was affecting.

There'd always been frightened whispers about me. At first people called be delusional because they didn't want to face the world honestly. The stories never changed, but the element of truth did. But when the whispers rose in volume I just saw the same old opposition. What a neat little label. They were like mosquitos to me. I didn't notice how their support was growing. The mad dictator, they called me. My best friends helped me see reality. Said I'd turned into everything I'd fought against as a child, only I'd been more successful. They were right. So I lost them too. And I left.

"That scared you," Anders tested gingerly.

"Damn right, it did. I'm immortal. If I ever want to do something badly enough, no matter how inadvisable, no one will be able to stop me."

I tried to move on. I went to mind healers, but that didn't help so I move onto the bottle, first, and spiralled into a trench after that. I had a pretty good idea by this point, but when someone stuck a knife through me and I woke again, that confirmed it – my sentence to an endless hell.

There were… less rough patches. Sometimes. The last few years have not been such. Sometimes I managed to move on a little. Monica put my heart back together, despite my best efforts. I fell in love again; Monica, Sam, Nicky. I've left families behind me because I outgrew them. It shatters me every time, and yet I cannot seem escape it any more than I can avoid my fate.

"So…" I drew out until the noise grew stale. I took that time to re-gather indifference around me like a shield. "Any questions?"

…

**Day 168**

"You don't really miss him," Anders said out of the blue. Whatever he was talking about, it'd obviously been on his mind for a while.

"What?" I sighed exasperatedly.

Anders didn't rise to the bait, didn't even glance my way. His gaze remained fixed on his tightly clenched fingers. His voice was a study in control. "Sirius was an influence for a fraction of your life. What are a couple months in the face of six centuries? If you can remember more about him than you can that yellow eyed swamp witch, I'll run though the city in my smalls. No, there's a more powerful motivator at work."

I froze, unable to believe what I was hearing. Anticipating this, Anders edged away. "If you say demons are influencing me…" I threatened, lost for words.

He backtracked hastily. "No, it's not that. It's remarkable that you recall him at all," he grasped for a concept, but I was losing my patience. "You made it quite clear that, to you, he represents the pinnacle of this great window in time, where you were a normal man and you were happy."

"Clear, you think? It isn't clear to me." Translation: you'd better fix that. My fists itched to hit something.

"It would be, if you looked," he insisted. "You may be an immortal but your desires are that of a man. You just want a solution, to be as happy as you were before."

"Sirius represents hope, the reversal of all that horrible things that have happened to you since he first disappeared." His gaze strengthened and his shoulders straightened unconsciously. I found my anger backing down against my will.

He dared to approach. "That's why you need him. He gives you hope. I'm a healer, Harry, I know what you need. It isn't a perfect solution, and it isn't healthy, but more than anything you need to  _hope_  again."

He shrugged, as if he hadn't just stomped all over this touchy subject. "That's why I decided to put aside my manly pride and lower my moral standards, even if it involves dancing around nude, chanting Chasind gibberish at the moon. It won't come to that, right?"

"I… no, ah, no dancing."

…

**Day 171**

"Bad day?" I asked Zevran, watching the abused training post sympathetically. He was obviously frustrated, but whether it was with being left behind, or Morrigan, or something else, I couldn't say.

"Here, take it out on me," I offered, drawing daggers of my own. "I've been practicing."

Crooked eyebrows revealed his interest. "Have you, now?"

Well, not as much as I should have. This was going to hurt, but it's never easier to stew on your own.

…

**Day 172**

"We found a dog. Well, technically it's a wolf, but if you stretch the definition, it's the same species. Sort of. Anyway, it looks like Padfoot and that is actually much more important."

Sirius sighed, "Look, I appreciate the effort, Harry, but I won't kill this thing."

"You won't have to! He has a tumour."

"A what?"

"It's a terminal disease. Cancer. His body went wrong somewhere and it spread to his blood. Now his heart is failing. He hasn't got much time left. It's a horrible thing. Killed millions of muggles before their scientists discovered that there's something about how our genes that interact with magic that kills cancerous cells. Muggle patients just needed a blood transplant from a wizard. I think as soon as your magic establishes itself in the body, it'll reverse the cancer."

"So I sit tight, like a vulture, waiting for it to die?"

"Circumstances are beyond our control; he is going to die, whether you do something or not. But I won't kill it, you won't kill it. It won't kill you. You both won't end up bound to my life. This isn't a good scenario. I won't pretend it is. But it's our best chance."

Sirius signed and run a hand down his face. "What do you need me to do?"

…

**Day 173**

"This is huge. Like, of the high dragon in a nug fighting ring scale. The amount of lyrium you're proposing… Maker, just the backlash should be enough to slap every Templar from here to Redcliffe."

"And here I thought that would be the part that would resonate with you most."

"Any other day I'd condone such comedy, but you know how Templars get when they're grumpy. The residue will cling to us like a bad smell. They'll know what we've been dabbling with. No innocent mage plays with that much power and throws spirits into the mix; they'll call us maleficarum. The signature could linger for weeks! 'Cordially thanking you for passing through damnation on your way to judgement!' It could stick with Sirius his whole life. We'll have to run."

I didn't ask, again, if he was sure about it. I knew the answer. "Then that's what we'll do."

The circle stretched from one end of the clearing to the other, perhaps five metres in total. Within the diameter were patterns of flowing lines and sharp corners. The continuous line – one written spell – was knotted into shapes; circles for strength, triangles for balance and structure, and more.

Close inspection revealed that the lines were actually tightly packed runes. The glow of the lyrium ore blurred one symbol into the next, and the overall effect was eerie, or perhaps even pretty. It took me days to measure it and write it all out.

The wolf lies in the centre. The magically induced sleep is the best rest it has had in weeks.

The whole process works on the binding magic of the circle. It is an invisible web, a network. It binds me to the physical, me to Anders, Anders to Sirius, Sirius to the wolf, the wolf to the Fade, and innumerable other possibilities and combinations. The magic is in the treads, in knowing and choosing which ones to enforce, and which to cut.

The lyrium is necessary to power my accent to the Fade, and enable Sirius transition from the Fade to the physical. And just to sit around and look impressive. It does that quite well, I must say. Lends a lot of credence to my claim as a knowledgeable person.

Or some appear to grudgingly think so, anyway.

"Go away, Morrigan."

"I am merely curious." As if.

"I bet. This is not something you want to learn how to do, trust me. There is something like a 30% chance that we will make a mess out of this whole thing and end up hopelessly entangled."

She took off without a word and disappeared into the canopy, but surely did not go far. I shook my head, whatever, I didn't have time for that. We didn't have much time at all – the black furry chest barely moved any more. I turned to Anders, who was sitting at the opposite point to me, scowling. "Let's get this over with, before the snow melts through any more of my clothing and my important bits start to freeze."

Rolling my eyes, I said the traditional Latin chant (more of a prayer to magic, really) and cast a fire spell at the centre. Green flames caught immediately and snaked in all directions along the lines of lyrium, until the entire circle was engulfed. The lines flared upwards of a metre for a second, but settle down to a candle like flicker. I felt the warm tickle in a corner of my mind.

"Remember, you need to feed it with magic, just enough to keep it lit. It should be just like the simpler circle we practiced on last week." The web needs to be constantly fuelled from both ends to be accessible. If not, we'll be lost, Sirius will still be stranded on the wrong side of the veil.

I closed my eyes, and shoved against the veil. Quite easily, my conscience slipped from the physical and into the Fade.

I got to work immediately. At my gentle prodding, the web revealed itself to my eyes. The more magic I fed it, the more lines appeared and the brighter they shone. Lines swept away from me through the landscape like the silky threads of a spider's web. One line was thicker than the rest, and a healthy red – the link to my body. I ignored the web, for the time being.

I found Sirius without incident. He paced, but tried to calm at my appearance. His frantic energy made me nervous. Many threads left him for random parts of the Fade, but there was no red among them.

I took a breath. "Come on, then." I touched the lines around me. Three were brighter than the others; the first felt of anger and mistrust, so I left Rage's alone, the second was dimmer and felt younger than the rest. I got an impression of pain and weakness and memories of strength that once was. We followed it.

"This way."

As we walked, I ran my hand along the line. The link grew bolder, curling first around my fingers with a distinct sense of awareness. A barrage of sensations ran across my mind; a curious whisper of  _'food? pack? tree?'_  as it tried to determine what was going on.

When we found him, the wolf was sniffing around a lush forest. Black fur glistened and muscles bunched, reflecting a strength of mind he no longer had in body. The red line was fading.

Ears perked and he watched us warily, but so long as we didn't approach, he didn't run. We circled around him, until we drew close to the red thread.

I grabbed Sirius' hand and placed his palm against the wolf's link to its body. "Your guideline," I explained, and my grip stopped him pulling back in surprise, "Don't drop it."

The wolf snarled.

"Run, Sirius!"

After a few steps, he vanished from sight, the great wolf hot on his heels.

What happened next is not my story. It was hidden from my eyes in the Fade. The events weren't even on my plane of existence, but I could not remedy that, as it would involve  _moving_. If I did, the web would fade into immateriality, or worse, threads would be cut.

Anders only said the wolf twitched, before laying still. In the wolf's mind, things were a little more turbulent.

There was a battle of wills for dominance, for who would emerge.

From the Fade, through the links, I could tell that Sirius and the wolf faced off. Both grew heated and both became weaker, but after time the wolf grew desperate and, eventually, subdued. Sirius was not in charge yet, but the wolf's claim to the mortal plane was just about expended.

Imagine my surprise when violent emotions kicked up again. It was not right, the wolf had relented. There was something else, some unknown variable. Had I overlooked something? Had something gone wrong? Stupid question; I had a pretty good idea that  _something_  had, but no clue as to the specifics.

Sirius was weak and getting weaker. The wolf faded. Peace fell at last. Hesitantly, warily, I let go of my grip in the Fade. Hopefully, it was all over.

"Wow, slow down there, you'll scramble your brains if you try to sit up that fast."

"Anders!"

"The one and only," he deadpanned, "How are you feeling?"

I grunted noncommittally. Truly, I had a headache for the ages, but there were more important thoughts that were trying to make their way through the pounding behind my eyes. "Something went wrong."

"What?" Anders straightened in alarm. "How?"

I could only shrug and shake my head helplessly.  _That_  action only left me groaning pitifully with my head in my hands.

"Honestly, Potter, the things you do to yourself," Anders slapped my hands away, and quickly soothing healing magic worked away the scrambling in my head.

"Hey, quit fondling my godson!"

My head shot up. Thankfully, without the pounding.

The wolf was gone, in its place was a scrawny, pale man. He was recognisable as the Sirius I knew, but his feature were a little bit sharper. His hair was courser, there was a light in his grey eyes that reminded me of his friend, Lupin. In all, there was an air about him that bespoke of something a little more feral than your average man, but still contained. Whether that containment built pressure and volatility or leant itself to control, remained to be seen.

He coughed and tried to stand. His body stretched muscles in ways it wasn't used to, like a small child, but his mind remembered how things worked.

"Sirius?" Anders check, his uncertainty and suspicion painfully obvious.

"Mostly. And company. The wolf and I came to an accord to fight off Rage."

" _Fuck_."

...

**Day 173**

"We need you to tell us what happened," Anders insisted.

Sirius huffed and scratched an ear uncertainly. "It was… strange. Like wrestling and biting and clawing but without arms and legs."

Anders hummed. "That's normal. Your consciousness was trying to overwhelm the wolf's. A fight was the best way for your mind to understand what was going on and to represent it, even though nothing physically happened."

"Great," and Sirius' stare conveyed just how much the theory interested him. He always was a very practical guy. "Well, I beat the wolf, it beared its neck, recognised me as top dog. It was exhausting, I was completely knackered. I settle down next to him and started talking, explaining really. I felt bad for him. He was confused; to him I was a predator and just some mutt."

"You… spoke to it." Anders sounded like he wished he could be surprised.

"Ok, not really. It's not something people can comprehend; so much is about body language, the rest you can piece together from tone and smell. The dog in me got things across," he shrugged and looked anywhere but our way. "I told him about magic and what the next journey was going to be like and he… he accepted that. He knew he was dying. His pack had long left him, it was just a matter of time."

There was a pause. I cleared my throat, "And Rage?"

At that, Sirius grumbled some things that must be censored. We mustn't unleash too much on this world all at once. When even Anders was blushing, he began to explain.

"The demons can tell that you and I are somewhat different to mages here, and they want us  _badly_. Rage went after you originally, to possess you. It even fought off other demons to keep you to itself. When it figured that was a dead end, it told you about me. It'd been planning this for a while. See, the demons couldn't find me, for whatever reason, but it hoped that you would be able to find the path, and it would follow. It almost got me, too. It is very strong, and a lot craftier than you've been led to believe, I think. When I was weak enough to defeat, it revealed that the dog's head was a little more crowded than we'd thought. It's not very complicated after that – the wolf and I found we could agree on the will to live and to fight, and he lent me strength. If he hadn't, well, I don't think it'd be Sirius speaking to you right now."

"That crafty son of a bitch."

My comment seemed to trigger something in Anders and he rounded on me.

"Remember what I said about not underestimating demons? I believe I mentioned it maybe once or  _twenty times_. Did you just trust your resolve to stand against the standard coercion and figure that was all there was to it?"

"That sounds about right." Bitterly, I slouched back against the wall of my room. It was, in part, my fault. My arrogance led me to overlook the possibility of a deeper threat. The fact is, in Ferelden no one really knows much about demons. Studying the subject is a taboo because of the nasty hobbies one tends to gather on the side, but as a result we don't know what they're capable of, especially the intelligent ones.

"How do you know all his plans, anyway?" Anders turned his considerable ire and suspicion on my godfather.

And there was that barking laugh I had missed. "Oh, you know, the complimentary villain monologue; it comes with the personality. Anyway, it didn't get much further through its explanation before I blew its arm off."

I coughed to cover something – amusement or incredulity – I couldn't decide at the time and I really did end up choking a little.

Sirius was decidedly shameless. "What? He tried to hurt my godson! I think I killed it. After that, it sort of disintegrated into purple dust."

"Damn!" Anders dashed his fist against an inconveniently low side table. "No, that means Rage fled. It's still out there."

It wouldn't be the next time I got to it…

"At least it's disarmed, right?" Sirius grinned like a puppy waiting to be praised for chewing the new rug.

Silence. The kind where bad jokes go to die.

"He's worse than you are," Anders marvelled after a moment, in a way that suggested he hadn't even conceived that such a thing was possible.

Sirius perked up, doubtlessly prepared with some unhelpful comment, but we still had one critical matter to address. "Enough. What happened to the wolf in the end?"

"There was no separating us. The wolf welcomed me. Before I knew it, I'd settled into the body and so did my magic. Now, the cancer is healed, it isn't going to die."

I laughed a little hysterically, "Oh, you have no idea. You two managed to link yourselves to my indefinite lifespan. Who bloody knows what this really means? If we're lucky, the same forces that keep me alive won't be interested in you, and you can still be killed. But until you annoy someone enough to force that eventually, you will probably get really damn old."

"So… conditional immortality?"

"Hm, that's one way to put it."

Now that I think about it, Zathrian did ask the Wardens to kill Witherfang, so Sirius probably can die or at least be separated from my existence. Well that's better than nothing. He may not age. Family will be difficult for him as it was for me. Friends will ask questions and we will likely watch them all die.

I may have found the only feasible way on Earth or Thedas to spread my curse, and isn't that just fan-bloody-tastic?

…

"Well, he's convinced me he's not part Rage demon. That said, you should probably keep an eye on him for the next few days, to see if he starts eating kittens or randomly catching fire in awkward places," Anders advised.

"Eating kittens?" I snorted incredulously. He'd almost relaxed when, to his horror, I added, "With Sirius, that'd be a sign all is well."

…

**Day 176**

In Sirius' mind, the phase he'd spent between worlds, in the Fade, was merely a dream. Time had no meaningful impact. That didn't mean he remained unchanged by the ordeal.

In the first few days, he was snappy and defensive around large groups – the wolf gets nervous, he says, and its personality was still at the forefront of his mind. The inner bowels of Orzammar don't exactly register as a reassuring zone for the canine.

Being human is exhausting, at first. His mind might've known what it was doing, but the body's muscle memory sure didn't. Little movements, like grasping things, were difficult to judge and maintain. Once he learned how to properly coordinate walking, his gate was more of a prowl than a stroll. Kind of like learning an Animagus form in reverse, actually.

On the second day, he almost pounced on a nug by pure reflex ("I couldn't help it! They're good eating"), but muscle memory didn't factor in a new shape, so instead he tripped over his long legs and almost fell into a weapon stand.

That certainly earned him some odd looks.

Sirius describes the wolf as the voice in the back of his head (not the one that sounds like his mother helpfully pointing out what he shouldn't do, the other one). It's more akin to instinct than anything else. Mostly, it's small things, like what noises to jump at and to growl at untrustworthy folk. But occasionally, particularly in dangerous situations, that instinct goes wild. Feral, he calls it. The wolf must run or hide or fight, and there is no reasoning with an animal once it gets  _that_  in mind.

In those moments, he changes forms and hides under the bed until his survival urge is no longer blowing red alerts. The first time this happened, he emerged shakily, exclaimed; "Now I understand how Moony felt on bad days," and he will say no more on it.

…

Sirius had never gotten the chance to experience freedom after he escaped prison. His name had only been cleared after his death. So he took to this new world, with its new magic and strange politics and lack of an outstanding criminal record like a duck to water.

He became enamoured with Thedas' own specially brand of magic; the medieval atmosphere, the weapons, the horrible brutality of the world and the remarkable strength it brought out in people.

He also, being the big kid he is, seemingly produced a dwarven following from nowhere. Mostly, they were children stalking him for a glimpse of his tricks, or to otherwise get involved in the mayhem he dealt out. He was a good storyteller, easily captivating his audience. At least, he did when he could get two words past motormouth Dagna, his constant shadow and owner of so many questions.

Sirius charmed most people he met, even Morrigan. He made drinking night (7 until drunk, every other day) come alive again. Pity drinking turned into social drinking, moaning became joking. He could bring out the best humour in Zevran and Anders; those two even forgot about whatever they've been passive-aggressively feuding about. Alistair was drawn into the fold, after he got over the whole ass incident, revealing that he'd grown into his spine and painfully dry wit while I'd been away.

It actually wasn't half bad.

"I can see why you put your hope on this man," Anders noted.

"Yeah, me too."

I understood, now, what Anders had meant when he'd said the idea of Sirius inspired me more than the man himself. But now that I have him back, I remember how I'd loved the man. Father, brother, crazy uncle, protector – Sirius was everything anyone needed when their crazy, broken world was falling to pieces.

Because Sirius wasn't perfect. Sometimes he carried insensitivity into the realm of cruelty. His ego was insufferable when on display. He was reckless to the point of stupidity.

But he was humbled by the suffering of others. His loyalty, once earned, never wavered. His recklessness was only matched by his nerve.

All throughout his life people tried to break him, and to remain a man he became an animal. He suffered. He endured. More than that; the kindness, devotion and courage endured.

Sirius was, undoubtedly, even more imperfect that most people. But when the world crashed down on him, he got up just to kick it back. If such a man could manage such a feat, then at the very least it meant it was  _possible_.

How could one not find their faith somewhere in that?

…

**Day 184**

"The Warden has returned with Paragon Branka!" awed whispers, shouts and everything in between reached my ears. The tavern was awash with noise of the latest unbelievable gossip.

Zevran, even after assuring himself that all his companions had survived, was grim. "Now things get interesting. You would not believe how stubbornly trouble clings to this man."

"Bad news?" I queried sympathetically. Because, you know, I've been there, done that.

"You don't know the half of it," a gruff voice cut in. Cousland greeted me with a nod and a lazy salute with his tankard. "Potter, nice to hear you're not crazy."

"Warden, nice to see you're not dead," I countered as neutrally as I could manage.

His grin was all teeth. It highlighted the new worry lines. His shoulders bore more weight than when we'd last met.

"Lower you hackles, mage, I have bigger problems than you. We saw the horde; an endless army of Spawn and they all march for the surface. Redcliffe, the Wilds, or thereabouts. We have two months at the very most. You'd hide in your Tower if you had any sense." He took a long swig. "Come on, Zevran, we need to get going. That castle won't save itself."

The assassin hesitated.

This was our goodbye? He would be whisked off the save the world and almost assuredly die. Words would never be enough. Manly hugs weren't much more sufficient.

"Take care of yourself, Zev. It's a better world with you in it."

I watched him walk away with a sour taste in my mouth, as if 'is that it?' was stuck to my tongue.

…

"We're going, aren't we?" Anders made an effort to sound resigned. "Ah well, can't leave it all to that useless assassin, Redcliffe wouldn't stand a chance."

Anders thought he knew enough about my character to read my mind. Clearly, he didn't know nearly enough about my protective side. "I've fought enough hopeless battles to recognise one when I see it. It looks noble from this side of the battlefield but this isn't a game, you could  _die_ , Anders."

He froze, pivoted on his heal to turn away from the doorway he was in the process of walking out of. "Wait, what? Was that a  _no_? You strike me as the type that can't get enough of hopeless causes, especially when other people are laying down their lives."

I surged to my feet. Sirius caught the back of my shirt on reflex. "Don't you dare presume that I would easily leave Zevran to die. But being one more body in an army doesn't solve much. I can't guarantee the safety of  _anyone_  in battle. None but my own." Immortality is selfish, no– completely useless. That is why it is a curse; I would gladly give up my life for any one of my friends, but it is ultimately a useless gesture. Take a blade for them and they catch the next. Maybe it makes me a coward that I would rather see my end than see another friend meet theirs. But the only one I can really protect is myself.

Anders scoffed. "Safety. That's what you're concerned about? Mages are feared because we're widely regarded as some of the most capable people in Thedas, how would it look if we were the only group not to make a stand?"

"Yes, they are terrified of us," I hissed. Maybe reason would work, "The plan was to go into hiding after the ritual. Templars will be out for our blood at the first whiff of it. Heck, the lingering dark magic around Sirius might be enough to make  _normal_  people uncomfortable. We'll be chased right out of town."

Reasoning, apparently, gained no purchase in stupidity. "You remember the Wilds near Ostagar?"

I blinked at the sudden change. "Huh? Blighted animals, corrupted land, gnawed bones, disease…" Oh yes, such lovely things guaranteed to make any battle even worse.

"That is what they stand against. An army is one thing, but the Blight… How can any mortal stem such a tide?"

Sirius, just as solemn, eyed me keenly. "How, indeed."

"But they've got men, dwarves, elves, some mages," Anders slumped more with each word. Trying to convince himself was no longer working.

I drove my point a little deeper with what he already knew, but had yet to acknowledge. "It won't be enough."

"They don't need to defeat the darkspawn. The army just needs to cut a path to the Archdemon. It controls them all," he argued.

I sighed, my head fell into my hands. Strategy always looks better from the sidelines. I hate to plan. You can prepare and maybe that will give you an edge, but planning… gah, if a plan depends on even one variable that is beyond your control, the whole thing could fall apart. In this, the fickle factor was obvious, and oh so  _volatile_.

"And if the dragon sits behind the horde? If it doesn't show up until our armies are decimated or the Wardens are dead?" I muttered through my fingers. We know we're dealing with an intelligent beast. It's written into the very definition of Archdemon.

"Well, if it's smart enough for that, then we'd best start packing for Tevinter," said a slightly more subdued and concerned man. But he bounced back. Of course he did. Anders shook his head, "I can't condemn the world to that. I don't think you can, either. Unless it was a different Harry Potter who walked to his death to stop a psychopath from ruining the world."

Sirius spoke up steadily, then, "I'm with you, Harry. Whatever you choose."

So calm and accepting and they're both hopeless, absolutely  _hopeless_!

"That's the problem! Of  _course_  I want to fight them, but do you think I'm unaware that there is no force in this world that will stop you two following me? What I choose impacts you two most of all. What's the worst that could happen to me? Becoming dragon chow, politics, maybe, but certainly not death! But you… would you really give up your lives for this?"

"You know I would," the loyal old mutt responded instantly.

Anders, on the other hand, coughed. "I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you."

I glared. "Yes or no, Anders. If we go, the luxury of that choice may be taken from you. Make it now, while you still can."

"Yes, alright. Damn it, yes, if it would stop the world becoming one giant Ostagar, I'd give my life." He looked a little shaken, as if this revelation was news to him too.

"Okay," I took a deep, shaky breath. "Okay, here's what we need to do."

We didn't prepare half measures. If I was going to go along with this daft idea, I was going to  _commit_  to it; mind, body, morality… they're luxuries. They can be put aside.

…

**Day 185**

The first problem would be numbers. "The majority of this land's fighters aren't under a Noble's banner or behind a shield. Bandits, cutthroats, mercenaries, apostates, blood mages, secretly malicious servants…"

Anders twirled his staff restlessly. "If only they would fight rather than run. Surely they know darkspawn victory means death for us all, if someone could just tell them–"

I cut him off with an irritated wave, "And they will still just be concerned about themselves. What does it matter if the world falls to ruin if they are already dead and will not burn with it? They know the consequences, they don't have to be told."

"You're saying they need to be motivated."

"Yes. They need a symbol. Maybe a promise."

"They never get a second glance from any of your traditionally trained nobles. Maybe all they need is someone to finally call on them."

"Actually… you make a good point." He's given me something to think about.

…

"I don't have a wand," said Sirius. I'd wondered how long it'd take him to admit to this rather large problem.

In response, I pulled the Elder Wand from thin air. "Here, take mine."

"This isn't your first wand," Sirius noted while examining the aged wood between his fingers.

"No, but it's indestructible. Perfect for a boy your age, really," I added snidely.

An eyebrow twitched. "I'm going to ignore that like the responsible godfather I am. What will you use?"

"I'll make do," I said blithely. Actually, this is a larger problem than I let him believe. Giving up the Wand will sacrifice quite a bit of my power and, more importantly, my range. Large, extended battles are horrible, crowded things. I don't want to close distance with my enemies unless I have to, and I especially do not want to ever be within arm's reach of more than five at a time. Swords freaking hurt, and with each wound I will grow slower and less capable.

I'll be crippled unless I can find a suitable replacement, but at least Sirius won't be defenceless.

…

**Day 192**

"It's been over a week, Harry, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were stalling." Sirius examined his nails as he spoke, his tone pointedly mild.

I glared. "People take time to travel, and armies take time to gather. The Warden isn't ready for us yet. We have time. And I refuse to march into this with my pants down."

"Oh, is that why you're sewing?" my godfather drawled.

I turned my back on him. I did have more important things to do, even if they did involve a needle. "I'm making battle robes, so you lot last longer than the first wave."

His head appeared over my shoulder. From the corner of my eye, I saw his expression light up with childish excitement. "Is that dragon hide?"

"Close. Wyvern. Not quite as good as my old basilisk set, but those are sitting in a different dimension, so this'll do."

Now, Sirius was watching the needle thread itself through the gouged holes with something closer to interest. "I didn't know you were a blacksmith."

"I'm not. But I've studied runes, enchanting, magical artefacts, and I've been sewing since I was a child. Adding magic is second nature by now." And I just happened to have and endless supply of dead experts on call to tell me how it's supposed to be done. That does help.

"Wherever did you get wyvern hide, anyway?"

"…"

"It's one of those questions I don't want answered, isn't it?"

"Let's leave it at that," I agreed.

…

**Day 194**

"What is this?" I wondered, just a touch reverently. The dagger was obviously of fine craftsmanship; it was a hefty weight, but nicely balanced by the engraved pommel.

The shopkeeper rounded the stall, a glint in his eye. "It's called The Edge. Imported all the way from the Free Marches, that is."

It thrummed with chilling energy. I flipped it over and, sure enough, etched into the blade were Thedas runes. But that wasn't what had drawn me to it. Touching the metal made it all the more apparent.

"And the blade?"

"Silverite. It takes a skilled smith to work that metal, but it's worth every coin, I assure you, you won't find anything better." Well, I knew that was a lie, but he wasn't exaggerating by much, so no matter.

It was a conduct; not as refined as a wand, or even a staff, but unlike the staves I had tried, this metal complimented my magic.

The wand chooses the wizard. On a more primal level, there are some materials, like phoenix feather or apparently silverite, that a wizard's magic favours more than others. The effect is akin to how two waves of the right frequency build upon each other, instead of cancelling out.

This was something I could use.

"You wouldn't be able to source me another, by any chance? I'd be glad to purchase two, for a reasonable price."

"Oh of course, sirrah, but custom orders are most difficult to arrange, I'm sure you understand the cost of such a venture increases-"

I cut through the bullshit with a stern look, and then swiftly bartered down from what  _he_  considered a reasonable price, to a more genuine one.

…

**Day 196**

A caller bellowed at the top of his lungs, "Report from the Legion! Darkspawn reach the surface and change direction! How will the Warden's forces react to this in time?"

I gave the dwarf a dirty look as we hurried past. This is just a sitcom for most people; something distant and removed. I'd have thought dwarves would have understood the darkspawn threat more than most folks. Apparently things changed when the direct threat faced someone else, for once.

I burst into the royal palace with an impressive flare of frustration and flashy robes. This, more than anything, got me enough attention to have my request acknowledged. "Get me an audience with the highest ranking general still under this mountain!"

Dwarven politics remind me of everything I hated in the Ministry from before my reign, and why I purged it in the first place. It had everything from the stuffy entitlement, to talking in circles and avoiding problems because it was easier and less risky than trying to find a solution – they mustn't damage their social standing after all, though damaging the people under them is another matter entirely. I strictly reminded myself that I must not have this joker removed from office or otherwise killed.

Oh but I was tempted. "It is a simple question: where are the darkspawn headed?"

"You're not to worry, the situation is being handing by people with the proper skills and authority."

My eyes narrowed at the slight. Have had minions killed for less. "I can travel faster than your scouts."

The noble blustered at the implication that anyone could be superior to a dwarf. I was passed fed up but the dwarf was on a role, probably empowered by the way I was holding back my temper. In his small experience and little mind, I wouldn't dare go against his authority.

It wasn't acquiescence or fear, no, it was my principles that were holding me back, and they were being tested by my pragmatism.

He prattled and blustered on, "You are not of high enough rank–"

I stood, interrupting him. His face turned a satisfying shade of red at my insolence. "Thank you for your time," I gave a mocking bow, and as he glared into my eyes I added with an unpleasant smile, " _Legilimens_."

…

**Day 197**

"That's the last of the lyrium?" Anders checked, a hint of hope in his voice.

"Yes, get dressed, we're leaving in ten." I took the satchel from Anders and distributed the vials between the three piles on the bed.

Anders made a face. Unwise, when Sirius was in the room and sober enough to pick up on that moment of weakness. "Not enough feathers for you?" he teased.

I tapped my fingers, secretly delighted at the loud noise my nails made against the hard scales. "I'm sure fashion is less important than the way they bounce off spells and swords alike."

"Who says they problem is aesthetics? Oof, they've got a bit of weight to them." Sirius held his robe against his body, imagining how he'd look, obviously liking whatever he saw. "They look badass."

"Said by someone who knows how to look good in leather," Anders grumbled.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "They've got lightening charms woven in, you'll barely notice it once you  _get them on_."

Sirius tried to look sheepish. Tried being the operative word – it's never been a skill of his.

"Anyway, the plan. We have maybe four weeks. The Wardens, if they have any sense, are probably massing the forces owed to them. Of course, they don't know they're at the wrong end of the country and by the time the scout gets word to them, it will likely be too late to shift that entire army and beat the darkspawn to Denerim."

"But what of the civil war?"

"That has to be address. Hopefully they know that. You're going to ensure they do. Anders, Sirius, I want you to go to Redcliffe. Warn them about the likely darkspawn subterfuge, and tell them to hurry their gallant backsides to Denerim, these monsters run a tight schedule, and it is  _past_  time to deal with Loghain, one way or another. Sirius, I need you to stay out of Denerim as long as possible. Keep an eye on the horde. Send a patronus for anything urgent."

"What will you do?" Sirius wondered.

"I'm going straight to Denerim." I need to get a reading on the political situation and re-establish myself with my contacts. Also, set up the board so that the system doesn't ensure our downfall. Merlin, I promised myself that I wouldn't get involved in politics again. These good causes can so quickly turn on us. But something is going to have to break. I knew from the beginning of this mess that my personal qualms might need to be thoroughly trampled.

I took a steadying breath, and my voice didn't shake. "Let us see how much of an edge I can give these people."

Anders gave me a concerned look anyway.

…

**Day 198**

I've been sending out feelers all day. It mostly involves walking the streets, locating the denizens of the underworld and just generally showing my face and the contents of my coin purse.

Unlike my last visit, where I aimed to unobtrusively blend into the background, this time I was as conspicuous as a mabari shitting in the Chantry during the morning service, as Anders is so fond of saying. I'd like to think I'm much nicer to look at, swathed as I am in exotic wyvern hide battle robes with enchanted daggers strapped across my back.

Erik Darlinghurst was a world renowned armour smith and magical experimentalist from before my time, and many agree that the world has not seen such a master since. With the man himself feeding his own spells into my ear, leaning over my shoulder as I cut and measured, I crafted something that wasn't quite the masterpiece that the man would've fashioned if he'd wielded the magic himself, but it was near as good as. The local blacksmith, Wade, literally howled in envy.

He wasn't the only one; Darlinghurst was an  _artist_. It wasn't cut to native fashion, by any means, but it was universally recognisable as classy. Add just a touch of magic and everything billows impressively. Every little bit helps and that trick doesn't just work on scarred eleven year olds.

The name Harry Potter means nothing here, though it was half of what got me into power last time. Now, I need to be legendary again, and image is half the battle when it comes to first impressions. Important people pay attention when you practically ooze power. When you command it elegantly, negligently, well, it lets people know that you could do a lot worse if you put effort into it. No matter if they feel threatened or envious or calculating, I gain their notice, and that is what I need to progress.

So, in all, I was satisfied, not surprised, when I found Ripped waiting for me when I returned to the room I was renting.

"Harry," he said with a smile, looking me over appraisingly, "You're looking well."

"You should see Anders," I snickered. If Ripped was a fan of leather, I'd have to vacate the room swiftly after  _that_  reunion.

His interest peaked. "Oh, he returned with you?"

"Not just yet, he's averting a strategic disaster. Depending on the thickness of the skulls of those involved, he should be arriving anywhere from tomorrow to next week."

"Very good," he hummed appreciatively, "but now to business. That display was meant to attract someone's eyes, clearly. What game are you playing, my friend?"

"The biggest game you can imagine. I'm going to court the underworld, charm the masses, blackmail the nobles."

"Is no one safe from you?" he wondered, with no small amount of amusement.

My smile slipped. Smooth choice of words. No, no one is safe from me, especially not in this arena. I am probably even a danger to myself, given that I hate what I am doing to this degree.

It didn't change anything.

"A darkspawn army is marching against us. Safety is no longer a viable option."

"Damn." His shoulders stiffened, but that was the only indication he was moved by the information. "Who will defend us? Our armies slaughter each other on a different field."

I set my chin stubbornly. "We will defend ourselves. Once I'm through with them, the able will fight and the helpless will not be caught in this mess."

"What do you need?" Ripped offered immediately.

I smiled slightly. I do so love people who get to the point. It's refreshing. "First, a way in with the leaders. Anyone you can get me; the bandit and mercenary groups, friends of Red Jenny, groups of apostates, even the more morally reprehensible mages. Then I suppose the Boss of the underworld will deign to speak with me."

"You need me," he stated bluntly, his voice oddly detached and thoughtful.

"Yes," I agreed slowly, "the men look up to you. I need leaders."

He nodded. "You need who I am. The disgraced son of a noble, one with too many friends on the wrong side of the law," he offered his hard resolutely, "Thomas Howe, nice to finally meet you."

I took it. Firm grip. Ouch, right, he's still a wicked crazy ninja. Mustn't forget that. "Odd line of work for an arl's son. Especially one that is reportedly dead."

"Gambling debts. Basically gave away my inheritance and then my life to pay it off. The noble track isn't for me, it was better that Thomas Howe was presumed dead in a rock fall." His eyes were guarded. "You're going to take my father down a peg, right?"

I wondered if this was the point where I would lose his support forever. "If it's necessary."

He finally relaxed. "It is. You wouldn't believe the dirt I have on that man; syphoning off the royal treasury, selling elves into slavery, murder of some of the highest ranking leaders of this country, torturing and holding his enemies hostage, then there are the things he's doing with women."

"You've been sabotaging his operations," I realised. "That silver shipment we liberated, you said that was one of his."

He grinned bitterly. "Yeah, my extracurriculars make me feel a little better about what this family has become."

"Right then. I'm Harry Potter; immortal, world travelling wizard, occasional evil overlord. I believe we're acquainted."

"Evil overlord?"

"Somebody's got to do it."

"Too true, my friend."

…

**Day 199**

Loghain's rooms were nice. Very sparse and organised. There was a bed, a chest, a place for weapons, a place for armour, and both saw regular use rather than sitting as decorations. These quarters clearly belonged to a general and a man accustomed to little, maybe even uncomfortable with needless indulgence. The same couldn't be said for his daughter, but no matter, it said a lot about the man who lived there.

There was a hiss of steel. The man himself was older than expected. "And just who are you?"

He was cautious. That was sensible of him; I was relaxed and he could tell. (Honestly, not all that difficult, I was lounging in his chair). Ours is a mental game. He was wrong-footed. I've made my position clear, and not-so-subtly implied that there is nowhere safe from me.

He kept his sword between us as he circled further into the room, to a better fighting position. I remained unimpressed.

"I'm your first and last friendly warning."

"Well now I'm even  _less_  than not inclined to hear you out." Sour man not amused. Fine.

I straighten up and got serious. "The darkspawn are marching on Denerim."

"You're a Warden, then. I don't recognise your accent," he said, skipping over the point entirely. Somehow, this assumption made him even grumpier. His bushy brows lowered further over his strong nose and keen eyes. His pose shifted slightly more defensively, as if he was expecting to be attacked at any moment.

"I'm just a mage," I allowed, dismissing the second indirect demand. "Now, if I thought it'd make a difference, I'd drag you to the deep roads, but I'm not convinced that you'll believe it's a Blight until the Archdemon knocks down your walls in a few weeks. So you'll have to just imagine, for a moment, that what I say is true."

"If that is the case, we are all dead men." It went unspoken that he doubted the truth in this. My esteem of his grasp of the situation rose, all the same.

I nodded in acknowledgement, "Frankly, even if the armies of men united and reinforced the support of the elves, dwarves and Circle, we won't have the numbers to take on the full might of the horde. We'd have to be very lucky to reach the Archdemon, and I hate relying on such things. We need more than statistics and fortune and a Warden who is seen as an upstart; we need to inspire the people to fight for their lives."

"At least  _one_  of Ferelden's hypothetical saviours isn't a complete idiot."

I snorted, tracing the grooves in my armour idly. "Intelligence. Practicality. It changes with the moment, doesn't it? For one, I'm rather inclined to keep you alive, but your death could be almost as useful to me. That said, I'd prefer if you were on board, no matter what you've done in the past. Things would run much smoother, but I will take  _any_  measures to drive back this threat."

"What has you so invested in the fate of this land, exactly?" and back to suspicion.

"I live here, too. I mean, I don't have to. I could move." I replied, unable to help the derision. That was a mistake.

"You would leave this place if you got in over your head. Typical.  _Some_  of us did not fight and bleed for this country only to abandon it, or see it usurped by this ridiculous Orlesian plot."

"For a nation you hate, you certainly give them a lot of credit. I'm not sure what conspiracy you're seeing. No one is going to look to occupy Ferelden when an Archdemon sits on its throne. If the darkspawn take Denerim, or any city for that matter, Ferelden  _will_  fall. Our choices then are to die or make a tactical retreat. And an Archdemon that has entrenched itself in a fortress would not be a lesser threat, I assure you. Let it not come to that."

He never once lowered his sword, but he backed away, shaking his head. He was detaching and distancing himself from the possibility – not a good sign. "That depends on the reality of this Archdemon."

"Of course it does. That is the big question. Which is the treat, here? You will decide what to believe, and that will shape your choices and our future interactions. Truly, Teryn – Regent, whatever you are at the moment – I could leave this to the Wardens but traditionally I do what is necessary because others won't, whether that is born of indecisiveness, laziness or queasiness."

The side of his mouth quirked in a parody of a grin. Or maybe a snarl. "That is the first thing you've said that I do not doubt."

I abandoned my negligent pose in favour of sitting forward attentively. "You recognise it, don't you? We're alike. More than you know. I made mistakes, but it wasn't too late for me. Or my people. It is not too late for you."

It's a bit eerie, actually. I was a general, I ended up ruling my people, I surrounded myself with bad men and even worse advisors. I made some stupid choices.

We both know that what is right depends a lot on the outcome you need. All I must do is to stop his resistance. It would be very easy to have him killed. I could even make Howe do it. Two birds with one stone. But that isn't going to unite the armies.

Loghain is not the devil. Misguided, perhaps, but paths can be straightened out.

"This is your second chance. I'll be interested to see what you do with it."

...

**Day 200**

"Anders, nice to see you made it," I paused to take in his appearance. Dishevelled and trying to hide it. My eyes narrowed.

That man is deplorable. "The world is falling apart, so much rides on your involvement and  _haste_ , and your first stop was to Thomas' bed."

His cheeks coloured, he cleared his throat. "They listened, by the way. The Warden should be arriving at Eamon's estate shortly. Cousland is willing to cooperate further with you. I believe his exact words were 'at this point I'd welcome council from anyone who's not trying to use this disaster to better their social standing', but that could've just been because the Arl was in the room."

"Good," I muttered gruffly, and bowed my head over the map I was scribbling over, so he didn't catch my smile. An elbow in my side told me I hadn't been quite successful.

I gave up. "Were the robes worth it?" I smirked, watching him flush further from the corner of my eye.

He ignored me, adjusting his collar to hide a telling bruise. He glared dolefully, "You're not doing a very good job at being angry," as if he would have preferred that reaction.

"When I'm angry, you'll know. I'll tell Sirius."

…

"Potter. I hope you're not going to waste my time."

"That is something we can agree on."

Cousland leant against a desk. At least I think it was a desk; only its general shape was distinguishable under all that paperwork. There may also have been a chair in there somewhere. "I see you've unpacked."

"No, I've been here five minutes. This is just the shit I've been left with," he groused. The Warden dismissed the servant with a practiced wave. The door closed behind me.

"Lovely. Where do you want to start?" I offered like an olive branch.

Cousland huffed. "Arl Eamon proposed a Landsmeet to settle things. I can't do anything with Loghain and Howe occupying their positions. They limit us badly with both numbers and influence."

That wasn't news to me, talk was buzzing in the lower levels of society. "You need to change their stance or replace them. The former with be much harder than the latter. A Landsmeet would work, but there are ways to settle this before it comes down to a vote from the nobility."

We shared a rueful glance. Clearly, Cousland would also prefer not to rely on politicians, of all people, to settle a problem promptly. Good, I wasn't dealing with a complete fool.

"Unite the system from the top and the rest will follow," I continued, "Howe should be easy enough to deal with. I happen to know some things even his most stringent allies couldn't possibly risk publicly endorsing."

"I'll kill him," the Warden declared. I silently revoked my stance on his idiocy.

"No! The second most powerful man in Ferelden? He's made some powerful people very rich. Have him arrested. By all means, have your revenge and kill him afterwards, but not now, not while his allies can foster doubt on your reputation by calling you a murderer or a social climber. Just do some leg work; help the alienage and his enemies. Expose what he's done, give the courts proof. A little bit of effort will establish you as a force for justice. You need it, trust me."

He regarded that last part with a cold smile, "Don't I know it. They need to follow a symbol, and since the King got himself killed with a very dramatic but foolhardy charge, I'm it."

"You've got the stuff," I reassured quietly. "Even Alistair could do it if he listens carefully. Or Loghain."

His head shot up, eyes flashing. "That's a bold position to take. Do you have any idea what he did?"

"People keep asking me this question and assuming I know the answer. Why don't you tell me?" I fished.

"I asked because I am curious on your position. But I suppose you want mine. He's the reason we have to combat this civil war, deal with the nobility and he's the reason we only have two wardens to take down a giant, corrupted dragon," he parroted neutrally.

My eyes narrowed. "And yet you don't sound all that against him. In fact, I can hear a lot of Alistair and Eamon in your words. A Warden, who was in the tower with you, and an arl who missed that battle entirely. There aren't a great many points of view being represented here."

Cousland picked at the desk with the edge of his gauntlet. Wood pealed like paper. "I know. Loghain was a friend to my family. Unlike Howe, he is not a man who is moved by power. Rather, he moves power out of his way. I don't know who to blame for the failure at Ostagar. Maybe it was us; our signal came too late. Or he could be a betrayer, or just delusional. Either way, he is also the reason I have an army of men to fall back on now."

"Maybe if he'd known the importance of Wardens, if he'd been given reason to believe that saving a couple dozen would be worth the sacrifice of thousands, because in the end it could save millions, then he might have made a different call. But it's done, anyway. Tell me what he did. I don't want loaded words like 'betrayed', I need actions and situation."

In the end, I agreed that Loghain made a difficult call but tactically the right one. As the General, that's not unheard of, it's _expected_. Since Ostagar, he's acted like a bit of a lunatic. I see a lot of myself in him.

"If he can be straightened out, I'll see it done. I'm already working on it," I promised.

"I just need him out of my way." Cousland's eyes were hard. This was a man who'd become used to doing things himself, just to see them done right. I was surprised that he would chose to delegate at all, but it was probably desperation more than confidence in my abilities that swayed him.

We discussed political positions and the stances adopted by the other nobles. I was letting him know just who was in favour of ending this civil war, and who would rather get something out of it, when a knock interrupted us. Loghain had heard of the Warden's arrival and basically stormed the estate in his haste to secure a meeting.

Quickly, I pulled the Warden aside. "If you take anything I've said into consideration, take this; you need to unite the army, not topple it into anarchy. You cannot take on Loghain at this point. He is a hero, you will need to build your reputation to a similar level before you can even hope to replace him. And someone must, you cannot leave his role empty – he inspires the people. We need Loghain's reputation; whether we need the man… that's up to you."

I followed Cousland and slouched in a corner as he, Alistair and Eamon greeted the Regent. Interestingly, Loghain had brought his stringent and formidable supporter, Ser Cauthrien, as well as some body guards, but no snarling Howe. The Regent wasn't being openly provocative straight off the bat. Interesting.

Loghain's eyes flickered to me and he glared, but otherwise ignored my presence.

"Warden."

"Loghain."

It was like two dogs sizing each other up. Charming. They were both big and impressive and had large swords. They'd have to settle things with either words or blows. And they both held a partiality for physical violence.

"I'd be interested to see proof of your claims," Loghain grudgingly spat out.

I paused in my examination of my nails. He'd thought about things, clearly. Perhaps he'd even considered  _why_  we've being so goddamn persistent about this, and his theories were starting to unravel. The Orlesian plot has so many holes in it, when one stops to think about it. Provided, that is, that he's stopped seeing chevaliers in every shadow.

"Do explain the so-called issue to me. The force at Ostagar was nowhere near Blight levels, my armies can counter them on a more appropriate battle field, once, that is, they no longer have to fight their own brothers. If that's your biggest problem, stop your uprising and we will have it done with already," the General grumbled, crossing his arms in a gesture that was two parts defensive and three parts aggressive.

Not one for peace talks, apparently. Luckily, Cousland was more apt at diplomacy.

He spoke confidently, "The army at Ostagar was just a small strike force large enough to serve its purpose. It was no random surge. Part of being a Warden involves an innate sense of when an Archdemon has risen. If that was not enough, I have seen it fly before the true horde in person. It is quite… unmistakable."

That was self-doubt in the General's eyes. Just a little, but the after the first chip it gets easier. I uncrossed my arms and stopped pretending to be uninterested in proceedings.

"Why don't you start by answering my questions," Loghain said. It was not a suggestion. "Getting straight answers out of your order is like pulling teeth from a mabari."

Alistair, until then speechless, found the words to voice his objections. "Warden, you can't possibly–"

I stepped in with a slight cough before he could get too far into that. "Alistair. This isn't a grudge match, this is politics. Come, I'll explain what's happening."

…

**Day 201**

"I had hoped you wouldn't follow," Zevran confessed.

I admit that confused me. I'm probably the only person he knows with this perpetual living condition, so concern was… odd. My doubt must have shown somewhat.

The assassin shook his head. "You have seen too much death, my friend. I would have spared you this."

Of course, he would know it is no small thing to watch allies and friends die around you.

"You shouldn't have to face it either," I said softly.

He shrugged casually, but I have had weeks to pick apart his tells and I knew damn well that he wasn't half as relaxed as he portrayed. "Death is what I deal in."

"There is more to you than killing and surviving."

I think he's just beginning to believe that.

…

"Maker's breath, have the Templars always been this damn  _aggravating_?" Anders marveled.

I slid a pint in his direction. My smile at his appearance dropped into a thoughtful frown. "So you noticed it too."

They're not really a threat until we're within smiting range. With apparition, even that shouldn't be a problem. But since we've returned to Denerim, if we so much as scratch our arses, somehow they know. Their endless hatred is nothing new, but the question of  _how_ , is. We destroyed our phylacteries, so they shouldn't be capable of tracking our positions with such unerring accuracy.

"Maybe we've been away from civilisation too long. We've gotten grown into soft and privileged apostates. How quaint," he grimaced.

I grunted noncommittally. True, in the Wilds and Orzammar we'd gotten used to walking down the streets instead of being chased. But this seems a bit much. Even before we'd destroyed out phylacteries we hadn't been pursued so relentlessly.

They've changed; now they're more prone to being sneaky. Some ditched the armour, others tried to lure us into traps, yet more stalked us as artfully as a tiger would have.

They haven't gotten close to catching me yet, but only because my reaction time is damn good. I even sat down for an afternoon and wrote a perimeter ward into my armour to let me know when someone with ill intent approaches, they've become  _that_  annoying.

They trail me into noble houses and the darkest of alleys to interrupt my meetings and negotiations, they follow me into the pub to cut my few minutes of leisure time short, they would surely attempt the same in my meetings with the Warden if they weren't turned around so thoroughly at the gate. The Warden's authority does what my magic can't.

It doesn't serve any useful purpose. They must really like pursuing fruitless notions. I'm always a step ahead and they still won't give up.

The timing isn't exactly ideal. I have stuff to do; all this evasion is lowering my efficiency and chances of success. It's beginning to cut into my sleep, which is another layer of trouble I can't afford; I already hate my job, getting snappy with the people I'm dealing with just drags things out further.

A grating noise brought my attention back. Anders scratched his stubbly chin in thought. "Perhaps they can sense the residual magic from Sirius' ritual?"

"Maybe," I remained unconvinced. Templars deal with dark mages all the time and I've heard they rarely go to such lengths.

We've become worth more than the frustration of the endless chase. They must know something, or at least think that they do.

It's different. I don't like it.

…

**Day 203**

Some negotiations went well.

The Boss turned out to be a petite elven lady. She scared the shit out of me, which she seemed to appreciate.

"No one knows the city like you do. Evacuate the common people, cover their retreat. War is coming to you, whether you want it or not. All that is left to decide is how you will meet it. Tell me, will it defeat you? At the end of the day, will monsters occupy your city?"

There was little debate. She was down to earth, and they had nowhere to go and too much to lose. "No, they will not."

Others went… less well.

The elves from the alienage flat out denied that they even had weapons, let alone agreed to take up arms to defend the city. Some things were just too ingrained. At least they appreciated the warning.

And sometimes parleys didn't even get started.

"I just want to talk!"

Fwooohm!

The fireball slammed into my hasty shield charm. "Blood mages, honestly."

A little later, I trudged back up the estate, late to my standing appointment with the Warden. I held up my hand to forestall the guards' questions. Just because I was covered in blood. Honestly, people are suspicious about everything these days. "Crazy mages, animal sacrifices. No longer a problem."

…

"Which nobles are still giving you trouble?" I announced without preamble. "Oh, excuse the blood."

The Warden eyed my splattered robes with understanding. "It's alright. That's not my rug you're dripping on," he said as he shuffled through some papers until he found several in particular, which he handed over.

I faltered for a moment. Wiping my hands on my robes exacerbated the problem, after a moment I muttered a cleaning charm and winced at the harsh tug at my skin. Cousland, impatiently, just about threw the papers into my arms.

"All the nobles are pursuing their own agendas. For about half of them, this agenda conflicts and takes precedence over the real issue. Greyman is trying to undermine our authority, Alfstanna wants to keep her men defending her farms, Sighard has refused to take any action until his son is found, Wulff is sure we don't know what we're doing and would rather wait for Warden support from Orlais; he won't commit men until he gets orders from a monarch. A dozen on them are trying to extract oaths in return for aid. The rest are being their usual unhelpful selves," Cousland rattled off, his ire building with each reminder. By the end of the rant he was pacing.

"Thanks, that's all I wanted to know," I turned to get back to work. No rest for the wicked, they say. Well, let me tell you, His Wickedness is well aware of it and starting to feel it. God, what I would give for an afternoon away from scheming and blackmailing and constant reminders…

"Wait, Potter! The Circle is claiming there is no one left to send. I'd hustle them myself but the timing…"

I sighed noisily, wishing I could be even remotely surprised. "There's always something. Right, I'll add it to the list."

There is no end of things to do, but at least the Warden is far more convinced of my ability and is willing to share information with me now.

…

**Day 204**

Realistically, at the moment Cousland has about half the humans he might hope to gather. Our numbers look stretched thin.

It's the civil war at fault, of course. People can't just stop fighting each other and start trusting him straight away. Most of them still look up to Loghain. If the politics here goes over badly when word reaches the troops, we may lose them. I think Cousland knows that. Deep down, Alistair does too. He isn't stupid, but admitting it would mean that working with Loghain would be the best course of action, and he's not ready for that just yet.

The situation isn't looking too good. Sirius hasn't reported any funny business from the Archdemon front, but they are making faster progress than we'd anticipated.

Still, things could be worse. They could also  _get_  worse, at that.

Cousland poured over a map. Several markers tracked the path of the horde heading towards Denerim, but we couldn't discount the possibility of another bluff. "What if the attack on Denerim is a decoy?"

I sighed, frustrated with it all. "Neither city can fall. Denerim is the heart of Ferelden and Redcliffe is the only defence from the south. Either commit to one city or split your forces and hope it is enough to keep both standing until you kill the Archdemon."

"We can't afford to divide the army in two."

"Then we may lose Redcliffe. Wherever the Archdemon appears, I can get you in seconds. Ideally, you will have the men there to support a charge, or you will be a sad little footnote in history and I will be eaten alive. That's an outcome I'm not too keen on."

"We'll leave Redcliffe a skeleton force. The rest will continue to make their way here, as planned," he nodded resolutely.

Of course it is a risk; we must take risks in war, and try to make the right ones.

…

**Day 206**

"It's the strangest thing, but I suddenly have a bunch of upper-class leaders actually acting the part," Cousland said as he entered the office.

I yawned. "The nobles are doing their jobs? About time." Then I noticed I'd marked a position on the map two blocks away from where it was supposed to be. I huffed in annoyance, vanished the mistake and tried again.

Cousland shooed me off the map and took over. As he settled into the chair, he mentioned, "I did not think they were capable of it. I've been a noble most my life and I've never seen them act like they give a damn about the world."

I arched my back with another yawn. "They just needed the right motivation."

"Ah, blackmail?"

"For the most part. Some responded to reason; not a large number, but more than zero. Others had rather empty closets but standard threats work well enough. I'm sure I left a report around here somewhere."

He laughed softly, "I'll keep that in mind."

"Talk to their servants," I added helpfully, "that's where the best gossip is."

"Maker preserve us," he plead light-heartedly. "Go take a nap before you take over the city."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," I replied with a sharp wince. I yawned but dragged my feet to the door. I'm not keen on sleep, these days. Rage's presence is all too keen but the demon is absent. Like an overbearing cloud. It's driving me mad that I can't kill it.

"Potter."

"Hmm?"

"I still don't have my mages."

…

**Day 207**

Loghain went for his sword on reflex. Upon recognising just who was sulking in the shadows, he rolled his eyes. "Do you have no appreciation for privacy or decency?"

I gave my best impression of innocence. "I just came to congratulate you in person."

"And I suppose you thought you  _had_  to do that in my quarters," he said dryly, but his sword stayed in its sheath, which is always a good sign.

"Well, yes," I admitted easily, "I know where it is. That makes it markedly easier to get to."

"I see."

"I don't think you do," I chuckled. "For the record, I think you made the right decision. Even if you don't fully believe it now, I hope you come to see in time just what a good thing you've done for all of us."

Today marked the official end of the civil war. Across the country, armies laid down their swords and returned to base. Cousland decided that the last thing Ferelden needed was an abrupt change in leadership; the particulars of letting everyone know, then getting them to acknowledge it would be a nightmare. So he brokered a truce with Loghain. Neither side was _happy,_  precisely, since the goal of 'defeat the evil bastard/s' hadn't been accomplished, but they abided by it.

Negotiations were ongoing, but it had been agreed that Loghain would retained his place in the military. The General hadn't lost much of his power, and this, more than anything else, calmed him. He was in a position to counter any Orlesian plot that might happen to arise, however likely that may be. It allowed him to see our side, and that became the same side.

"Just out of curiosity, what would you have done if I hadn't listened?" he asked as if dreading the answer.

"Backup plan. I was going to steal your crown and deliver it to Orlais, just to get that out of the way so you could focus on more immediate issues."

He gave me the look of a man questioning my sanity. "I don't think I would have taken that very well."

I hummed and offered a shrug, "It was the last resort for a reason."

Loghain thought over the words for a while, eventually arriving at a simple and gruff, "Potter, get out of my bathtub."

…

**Day 208**

Howe is behind bars, the elves and many proud Fereldens are celebrating the Warden as a hero. As word of his exploits in other cities reaches the gossip chain, his reputation only grows. The people love us. Mostly. Loghain's deeds weigh on his name in some factions, but for the most part it is accepted that Howe's actions were his own. That isn't strictly true, but truth has no place in politics. That's something Alistair's golden heart is finding hard to accept. He stormed out after the truce was announced and hasn't been seen since, making him yet another person for me to find.

Howe left the arlings in Amaranthine and Denerim, and the teyrnir of Highever leaderless. For the time being, management of Denerim has been placed under Loghain, and his lands, the teyrnir of Gwaren have fallen to Anora. In the end, Amaranthine went to Delilah Howe, provisionally, that is, because we only have Thomas' recommendation to go on and he hasn't really got a head for administration.

Cousland wasn't too pleased with that, but he can see the bigger picture and hold his personal dislike of Howe's children at bay. I was pleasantly surprised that Cousland didn't extend his grudge, considering his fanatical crusade to put Howe down had disturbed even me. He really was a decent person.

The public, on the other hand… It was a shit storm of epic proportions; many unhappy people figured that one rotten man meant a rotten family. That would've been nice to avoid but there really was just no one else. It's a problem that just keeps cropping up. The soldiers won't trust a fresh man to lead them against a horde of darkspawn a week into his reign. We need people with experience and, thanks to Howe's trigger-happy methods, we have few of them left.

"This has gone far enough," I decided halfway through a debate on provisioning; such topics were what minions were for, we were just delaying the inevitable. "Ferelden needs hope and they'll get that from a good leader. Who's it going to be?"

"I've been  _trying_ ," Cousland almost whined. Merlin, I forget how young he is until he does something like that. "Anora is busy with Gwaren and only Alistair can match her claim, but I don't know if he's up to it. If he can't even deal with Loghain, the nobility will eat him alive. Technically, Wardens aren't supposed to hold rank, either, it's generally agreed to lead to bad things. But after Anora, the highest ranking people are the Couslands and the Mac Tirs, but Loghain and I won't take it, nor should we. Then come the arls, but if we pick one above the rest there will be pandemonium. And on top of this, the seat of Highever is still empty. If only we had a teyrn there, then some shuffling might be possible."

"What if Alistair was on the throne, and…" I trailed off. "Merlin's balls, I can't believe I forgot about him. I'll be right back." I apparated away without an explanation.

The Chasind were welcoming, but I made my apologies and explained that I really would love to stay for a drink but  _I can't_ and, yes, I'd love to help your mother fix the tent but my situation is a little  _complicated_ , and  _does anyone know where Fergus is!?_

Ten minutes later, I was panting in front of a vaguely familiar camp. "Fergus! You have no idea how glad I am to see you. I hope you're packed."

It took two jumps to get us back safely, and by the second the would-be teyrn was leaning most of his weight on me and dry heaving. I'm glad I got to him before breakfast.

"Ugh, Potter, a little warning would have been appreciated," the eldest Cousland wiped his mouth and gave me a look, though he froze when he caught sight of the other shell-shocked person in the room.

"Sorry, Fergus, but I thought this reunion was a little overdue, I'll just… yeah," and the long lost brothers weren't listening to a thing I said, so I took my leave.

Fergus took up the mantle, and significantly eased our problems. The ranks of the nobility were full at last, and they could gather up the military support we needed. There was still the question of The Big Chair, and no one suitable to occupy it, but that would have to be for another day.

Little Cousland approached me with a big grin on his face. He looked as if he'd shed ten years. I don't know why – I'd only brought his brother to the most perilous city in Ferelden.

"Now maybe you can work a miracle on the mages," the Warden clapped me on the back after thanking me profusely.

"Alright I get the hint, I'm  _on_  it," I grumbled.

…

"How'd you find me here?" Alistair didn't even turn to greet me, forcing me to walk around and sit on the floor if I wanted to meet his eyes.

"A hunch." Not really, I never would've guessed to look in the stables, of all places. My tracking spell told me.

His expression was stormy; angry eyes glittered at me accusingly. I probably wasn't his favourite person, just now.

"You've been a bad influence on Aedan since the beginning," he accused, and, damn, we were not off to a good start.

"Actually, Aedan didn't take any shit from me in the beginning. That's how I ended up in the Circle, remember? He can tell when I'm being ridiculous, and he straightens me out. But when I say something worthwhile, he listens," I tried to explain calmly.

He didn't like it. "And Loghain was worthwhile?"

"Very." He scoffed, but I soldiered on, "That's the key to leading. You can't pick people because you like them; you pick them for their skills. Now, Loghain isn't the most personable guy, I mean, can you imagine that guy as an ambassador? Disaster. The dress would not go with his hair at all. And his face! Merlin, he'd terrify the ladies of the court."

That garnered a snort, at least.

"You don't have to like some to acknowledge they're good at their job. You think Loghain liked Howe? No one liked that creep. But he didn't get where he was because he was useless. Neither did Loghain. He was granted the Teyrn of Gwaren by King Maric for his role in battle as a strategist."

"Yet his strategy killed Maric's son," said Alistair with a particularly bitter note. Right, half-brother, warning zone.

"That's not what Cousland told me. He it was Cailan who insisted on the charge, and wouldn't listen to Loghain."

"He withdrew his troops. If he hadn't we might have had the King, more Wardens, and their experience right now."

"Point granted. We don't have as many Wardens as we need. But you, Cousland and Riordan are all we have to work with, now, so we need to make the most of that. All these people are fighting, ultimately, to keep you alive, because for whatever reason, only you guys can end this. Loghain will make sure that happens as cleanly and successfully as possible. He has a gift for forming workable plans in chaotic battlefields, you can't underestimate that."

"He still knows nothing of darkspawn."

"He may not have much experience there, but you've been doing little else in the last few months, and he's listening to you now."

"Really?" he sounded doubtfully.

"Yes, he's been talking with Sten about tactics all afternoon." And that wasn't even a white lie. When Sten decides you need to be told something, you listen, willing or otherwise.

We fell silent, and I didn't feel the need to disturb it. The young Warden was thinking.

"At least Aedan didn't make him a Warden, like Riordan wanted," Alistair said at last. "That would've been the ultimate insult. Everything else… I don't think I can get over it, but I can work around it. Bigger problems and all that."

I do love it when people listen to me.

…

**Day 210**

The nobles have been fully wrangled into shape through the combined efforts of Anders and Thomas, though I participated at times to work off some steam. The ranks swelled, but all is not well, naturally. That was expected. I just didn't expect Cousland to object to the additional troops I was proposing.

"We have an army! I won't have cutthroats and blood mages threaten everything I have worked towards."

"Your army isn't enough!" I yelled back, frustrated, "You have numbers, and little enough of those, but what are elves and men and mages but singular, socially isolated factions? That is not an army. Will mages support Templars and will elven archers cover men?"

"They'll follow orders," he insisted.

I scoffed, "Sure, you can assign them groups and they won't be happy. They will still gravitate to the people they know and trust. Divided and weakened before the enemy has even arrived."

He didn't appreciate that.

"Your people would make it worse. How do you suggest I command loyalty from people who have none?" he sniped.

"Don't bullshit me. You travel with a bard, a murderous golem, a self-destructive dwarf, a devout Qunari, a questionably-motivated witch and an assassin who tried to kill you. You know damn well that loyalty can be found in all walks of life, and they'll listen to a hero," I enthused. He couldn't contest that. Hah. "Your companions see you as a hero because they know  _you_ , but you can't try that with an entire army. You must rise above your race, become something else. You need to be eight feet tall with lightning shooting out of your eyes, then, maybe, they'll overlook the shape of your ears and your upbringing. You don't get to be a man. That's the hard truth."

"You're asking me to become Loghain," he stated.

I considered that. "Pretty much. You've done the hard yards – they've seen you save their homes from werewolves and undead, return their paragons and stabilise their politics. They know you're on their side, you just have to remind them."

The Warden sighed. "I can't be this man. I've never been a commoner, I can't stand with the normal people; I wouldn't know where to begin."

"Begin by investing in their safety. Visibly." I ran through possibilities, most were unsuitable but one was a ripe opportunity, if only we could use it. "I haven't been able to get the mercenaries on side; they speak only in gold."

"So, what, you think I should set up fliers and offer to hire ever mercenary company in the city to fight the darkspawn?" he mocked.

Where he saw absurdity, I saw promise. "That's not a bad idea. You know where Howe keeps his funds now, after all. Just put less emphasis on the darkspawn, more on defending their homes. You'll find that people become so much more agreeable."

He threw his hands up in defeat. "Alright, I'm convinced. I'll see about integrating these people of yours."

I smiled, "That's good."

"You know that would be better?"

"Yes, yes, you want your mages."

"Actually, I was going to suggest a division of brontos to break the front lines, but now that you mention it."

…

**Day 211**

"You're going to ask Alistair to be King and marry Anora," I repeated. "Man, there's throwing your best mate to the dogs, and then there's that."

"You don't agree?"

"I don't hate him that much. You have  _met_  Anora, right?"

"She is capable."

"She's a cow."

"Alistair will be a good balance."

"Alistair will be miserable. You can explain this one to him."

…

I had to take the long way to the tavern since the Templars were out in force after some noble reported being threatened by a mage. And it wasn't even my fault.

"You look pissed off," I observed when I saw who was brooding in a corner and doing his best to get drunk.

"You don't say?" Alistair grumbled, "I heard you argued against it."

"Yeah," I sat and slid my tankard along the aged wood, "but he's still the boss."

"I know," he sighed heavily, "Any chance we can  _not_  talk about this?"

"Sure," I tapped my fingers as I considered. "How to do Templar abilities work?"

He gave me an indiscernible look.

"What?"

"You have  _one_  major weakness and you didn't even learn about it?"

I glared. "It was refreshing. Now, it's a problem. So what can you tell me?"

"I can tell I'm going to regret this," he grumbled. "It's a mental discipline. The Chantry teaches that magic is just an illusion of truth and that by dispelling it, we return the world to how it should be."

That sounds weirdly like denial is being used to counter the scientifically impossible. It boggles the mind.

I shook my head as if the clear out the confusion. I focused on the one element I could understand. "You're telling me that _you_  have the brainpower to bowl me over?"

"Sitting right here," he said pointedly. "I feel that emphasis was unnecessary."

I coughed. "Right, sorry. So is this a case of anti-magic beats magic?"

Alistair just shrugged helplessly, "It's not something that's studied, only practiced. We aren't taught how it works, just how to do it. There's some speculation that it blocks a mage's connection to the Fade, where the source of their power is said to come from, but…"

"You doubt that?"

"The mages don't end up tranquil, so it's probably misdirection. Really, I have no idea. Magic is your area, not mine. I do know that magic users can't block smites. Best just to stay out of range," he suggested.

I thanked him, even though it wasn't as helpful as I'd have liked. I'll have to think on this. Evidently it's not as simple as I thought.

…

**Day 212**

Oghren was passed out under the table, Shale was on the lookout for birds even while indoors, and Wynn was watching me more carefully than she was listening. But hey, at least Leliana was enjoying my stories. We were trading them and we'd just worked out a points system when through a wall came a florescent blue canine that would have brought joy to all in the vicinity, if not for the words it carried.

In Sirius' voice, the dog said, "The horde has increased its pace. Darkspawn from the surface join the ranks. Inbound five days."

The patronus faded.

"Right, party's over." My voice rang in the sudden silence. The people around us had fallen quiet after the obligatory shrieks of shock and awe. "Wynn, Leliana, gather the group. Shale, could you grab Oghren for us?"

"Why should I do this for the old man? The dwarf is putrid."

"We need to hurry and you're the only one strong enough to lift him easily. Plus, out of all of us, you can't smell him."

Chiselled features fell into a scowl, "It should be careful I do not squish it."

I cleared my throat a little uneasily. "Noted." The golem acquiesced with a little more properly applied flattery.

A young man spoke up, "The darkspawn are coming?"

I managed not to role my eyes. Sure, people listen to a seemingly omnipotent blue dog when  _it_  brings bad news, but we just get doubtful looks. "Yes, we are preparing to counter the attack. This was not an unforseen development, I assure you this is under control," I soothed. The crowd's pure panic faded, leaving only an unhealthy level of concern.

"Are you certain?" Sten interrupted, "The Warden seems to believe there is still much to organise."

I ground my teeth, "Thank you, Sten," and hustled them all out the door before they could bring any more terrified looks to people's faces.

"You misled them. Will the truth not better prepare them for the battle?" the Qunari persisted once out in the cool night air.

That's like saying sticking a hot poker in a bag full of cats will better prepare them for summer. I shook my head. "They can't handle the truth. They like to believe that the higher-ups have everything under control. We never do, of course, but it's a nice illusion. Keeps them calm."

Sten looked stonily disapproving. "The Qun does not treat cattle in such a way."

"Well you must have smart cows, then. Come on."

We met Cousland coming out of Eamon's estate. He was grim. "The Archdemon knows we've caught onto its manoeuvring."

"We know," I replied automatically. Wait a minute – "How do  _you_  know? You're in contact with this thing?"

"We get dreams straight from the mind of the beast. It's a Warden thing. Apparently it goes both ways," he explained and theorised quickly.

I shuddered, now, why did that sound familiar? "Right. Creepy. Well?"

"It's upping the charge, holding nothing back. They're very close."

"And the sodding lizard?" Oghren demanded, the robust dwarf conscious again, remarkably.

"The Achdemon is leading the horde," Cousland confirmed.

I ran a hand through my hair. "Well, that's good news, depending on how you tilt your head."

…

"Prongs, tell Sirius to send his location, I'm coming to get him."

In quick order, I had retrieved my godfather and returned him to my room. Deep circles lined his eyes; he looked frazzled and exhausted, but there was a light in his eyes. He liked being useful.

"What's changed?" he sunk into the bed with a loud sigh. "Why'd you bring me in?"

"Final preparations. The horde is too close to head anywhere else, it's committed to Denerim now. You need to get around the city a bit, check out where we're going to be fighting. Then we need to plan."

…

**Day 213**

"It was  _you_! You taught the mages how to flee the circle. You don't understand what you've done!" Cousland shouted.

The Templars had been even more unreasonable to Sirius than Anders and I. They hurled out accusations and put up fliers. He was labelled a demon, a dark magister, blamed for anything from droughts to the mages deserting the circles. He did not deserve to carry around baselessly accusations again.

I openly took the blame to get some attention off him, and that got back to important people. The fear I could handle, I could even use it. I resented the implication of my ignorance, however.

"You'll find that I believe I do," I stated darkly. "They're not confined, don't fear the consequences because they can't be caught. I removed one brick and the whole system came crumbling down."

"But you didn't think beyond that? Did it even cross your mind that maybe there's a  _reason_  mages are shut away?"

"You're awfully bitter about this."

"Damn right, I am, I don't have my army!"

"What are the Templars?"

"They are not under contract. Even if they were, it takes two days to make the journey. I cannot make the round trip in time."

I sighed. "You understand why I am so reluctant to return to the Tower, I hope?" They'd been acting so strangely lately, and I would be entering a stronghold. The idea didn't fill me with joy.

He growled. "I did not feed a sloth demon so they could bail on me. Fix. It."

…

I took a fortifying breath, got a hold on the chills down my spine, and knocked.

Eyes widened behind the helm of the recruit who opened the doors, "Wait, I know you!"

"Yes, you do," I started firmly, "I'm acting liaison to the Grey Wardens."

I just hoped that diplomatic immunity by association with the Wardens would be enough to get heard out. I greeted them as graciously as I could, considering the circumstances. Good thing I'm a decent actor, "Knight-Commander. Ferelden needs your support. We have a few days grace before the Archdemon leads the horde against Denerim."

His glare smoothed into shock. "Maker have mercy. But who would you suggest we send?"

"Anyone. Let me speak to who is left, please."

There were perhaps forty in total, far less than the hundreds that had lived here previously. Half were children, I dismissed them out of hand. Two dozen, then.

"Will you follow me? I'm just one mage against a horde. You could stay in your tower and choose not to fight for a world that has already taken your friends and family from you. You will be safe, for a while. You will have warning before the Blight reaches here." This, I added for the apprentices who would remain behind. I hoped, if we failed, they would be able to escape Ferelden.

"But I could use your help. The people out there definitely need your help, regardless of whether they admit that, or even acknowledge your efforts. Do not fight for recognition, for you probably get less than you deserve. But when stories are told of this day they will remember that mages stood together, united, with the rest of the Makers children."

"Hear, hear!" an old woman muttered sarcastically.

I schooled my expression. "Fight because there is evil in this world, and nothing in your lives will ever be so easily defined. What do monsters care for our politics? In the face of them, we are all equal. Some good people may even come to realise that there is some truth in this."

The old woman seemed to be their self-elected spokesperson. "You're barking up the wrong tree. The hot-headed ones have gone. We are only librarians, scholars, teachers, healers. There are no fighters among us."

"There are librarians in the way of the horde who cannot throw fireballs with a flick of their fingers," I pointed out. "There are teachers who will die defending children they cannot possibly hope to save. There are people that will have to rely on hope without your healing magic."

In the end there was little fan fair, for there was nothing worth celebrating. I had eighteen able and willing, led by Irving.

"You're sending them to their deaths," Greagior implored. It struck me then, that he does care about us. No matter his strictness, he still sees us as people.

"I know."

They are not cannon fodder to me, either. I call them to fight because without them less able people, probably women and children, will face the chopping block. These mages at least stand a chance.

Irving shuffled up from behind. How he hoped to last in the battle, I did not know. "Why don't you fight, so more like us don't have to? You signed on to be soldiers, protectors of the people. You've trained for this."

I warmed to my chance. "There's no treaty obliging you to go, but what is forcing you to stay? As you've said, the Tower is mostly empty, a token force could maintain order. The rest… there is still a noble cause."

The Knight-Commander wavered in the face of his lifelong friend. "I… yes, I suppose we must."

…

**Day 213**

At the Tower, Derik slipped me paper with instructions and contact details. I believe (and no small part of that is just pure hope) that it will lead me Amell and more mages.

I can double the number of mages the Circle could give us with the apostates I've recruited in Denerim, but that still leaves us with too few. And they're not exactly fighters. If there were more, I could spare the weaker of them in less intensive assignments, but as it stands, none of them will face an easy battle.

I sent a raven to the coordinates. Hopefully they will reply.

…

I was pulled away from my lunch to an emergency strategy meeting with Cousland, Alistair, Riordan and various military advisors. They were not happy with my presence but couldn't argue against it since Cousland had officially declared the lesser army of misfits to be my problem. The little shits weren't above 'misplacing' Loghain's invitation, however. As a result, the collective IQ had dropped noticeably.

Ten minutes of wasted time later, I growled and stalked out.

I found the general (who'd been promoted to such due to merit rather than social position, unlike some I might mention) in Cousland office, now dubbed 'The Stage' or 'The Place Where Shit Goes Down', depending on who you asked.

"Loghain."

He looked up with a grimace and a sneer, "What do you want?"

I beckoned. "I need you with me. Some prissy noble fellows are trying to apply open battle tactics to this situation, as if we were out in a field on a nice summer's day. Amateurs. Let's teach them the meaning of guerrilla warfare."

Again, he sneered. He has quite an array. I'm getting used to his expressions; this particular sneer was crafted out of despair for idiots and a general lack of faith in humanity.

"That's an interesting name for it," he hedged as we marched to the conference room.

"Guerrilla warfare? That's what my people call the hit-and-run tactics by small groups operating in hostile territory."

He snorted and glared, this one masking wry amusement at the situation. "That's what the noble born call dishonourable tactics."

"I figured that out for myself when I tried to talk them into it, thanks. I hear you're a bit of a specialist."

"I convinced Maric to fight smart," he deliberately misinterpreted. "I can handle these puppies. And I  _live_  for rebel tactics."

I laughed viciously in anticipation. Loghain spared me an amused sneer/glower/glare.

…

A blasting curse rocketed off my blade, blink and miss it, and blew a target to smithereens. I frowned. I'd made progress, but the target was only twenty metres away. Any further, and my aim rapidly fell apart.

I've been working on improving for a while, since about the time the archers surrendered the practice yard. Don't mistaken that act for coincidence or curtesy. They still haven't been game enough to return. That improvement thing? Yeah, it's ongoing.

Wizards are good at devising ways to kill things, but wizard magic in general isn't meant for wide scale battles. Pulling together an arsenal of spells for this situation is harder than you'd think.

I could meticulously AK every monster I came across. If I had a century or two to spare, I might succeed. My people never raised any demand for area effecting spells – most fighting spells are meant for duelling, which is very much a one-on-one test of skill. Even in battle collateral damage is considered degrading for the victims and gains no prestige for the caster. If one desires a wide effect, one must be creative. Generous and liberal application of the levitation charm, I always say.

But I'm having trouble. Different spells present different problems, with no apparent correlation. Some spiral out of control as if battling my will. Others are sluggish in leaving my improvised wands. Those are logistical problems, however, and can be overcome. Hopefully before we're overrun.

I fired off a sectumsempra and watched with slightly more satisfaction as wide array of cuts bit into the wall around the target.

A slow clap sounded behind me. I rolled my eyes and cast again, this time shifting my grip on the dagger to a backhand. The spell slammed into the dirt a few metres before me, kicking dust and stones into the air.

The assassin tsked. "How long have you been at this, amico?"

"Evidently, not long enough," I grumbled. Why had the – oh, of course. The spells emerged in the direction of the blade but followed the path of my arm. Well, that was another layer of confusion to complicate things in the heat of the moment.

"Relax for a moment. You have been so tense of late," my friend implored. There was a note of serious concern under his joking manner that I chose to ignore.

I fired of an aguamenti cautiously. A jet of water blasted the target. Last time, I'd gotten so thoroughly steamed, I'd actually burnt my nose. It's nice to see that whatever the problem was, it's sorted itself out.

"Whatever you're suggesting, I'm sure it's a bad idea."

"Even a drink among friends? Come now, we have hardly seen you this fortnight."

…

The pub was crowded with people, none of them particularly cheerful. Confirmation of the expected attack has well and truly gotten around, which is good for preparation for those that will listen, but not so great for morale.

The Warden, his team, and my friends are immersed in the crowds. Normally, such an appearance would be serving a purpose – possibly motivation, or building connections, but not today.

Things couldn't remain quiet when we entered.

Leliana was singing, doing what she could to lift our spirits. She does it well. Knows just which words will move folks in these times. Wynn, also, is good at being a calm and reassuring presence. But you can't go past Alistair. The people adore him. They approached him with an awe that he just couldn't shake; his efforts to be friendly just garnered more surprise and admiration. They aren't used to people of high rank slumming it in the pubs with the commoners, and they like that their soon-to-be King came from dust and hard work, just as they did.

In opposite corners like sentinels, Sten and Shale inspired confidence just by glowering intimidatingly, which was a step above Morrigan, who contributes the most for merriment when she isn't around.

And finally, the entertainment started off by the bar by migrated in a series of stumbles to the centre. I'm not sure if Oghren's impromptu audience was laughing because of his filthy jokes or because he was absolutely  _blind_. Anders, the nasty sod, was provoking him. He challenged the stout warrior to a drinking contest once the dwarf reached the point of falling over and still lost.

I shoved Zevran and gestured in the dwarf's direction, "Is he  _always_  like that?" I've never seen him even somewhat sober. He was still putting it away, though I've no idea where all that liquid went.

The assassin laughed. "Si, you should see him fight that way. It is something to behold."

Cousland enjoyed the music. Ripped cautiously approached the Warden and, when he wasn't chased off at sword point, even more warily took a seat. I looked over a little later to see them chatting, having mended the bridge that had been broken when they were both children.

The night really heated up when Padfoot decided it would be a great fun to play with Cousland's mabari. They raced between the tables, wrestled in the middle of the room and begged attention from anyone who would give it. Everyone was good-natured about it, once the canines proved they're a big pair of softies. This is a land of dog people, after all. After a few drinks, they weren't even put off by the wolf's size, which surpassed even the war hound if the fluffy coat was to be taken into account.

In all, it was a crazy, good night so  _of freaking course_  I startled awake, sweating and cursing, after what seemed like minutes of asleep.

Again.

The world was perverted, infected by a creeping sickness. All life scrambled like ants before horror and fire and, above it all, a dark malevolent cloud closed in.

I should be too tired to dream. The stress must be getting to me. Just a few more days.

…

_*The reader knows the statistics, the dates, the key figures, the body count. But none is more critical than this._

_They can see the pieces falling in place. Knowledge that has been obscured by mystery is beginning to fit together._ _**This** _ _is what they needed to find –_ _**this** _ _is where it all truly started.*_

…

**Day 214**

It's been too long, still no sign of a reply from the mages. The bird should be back by now. I sent a patronus, but Prongs returned without a word for me or my peace of mind.

Not much progress on the peaceful front in general. Trying to plan with Anders and Sirius in the same room is a trial in itself.

"We could set fire to them all," Sirius suggested, a glint in his eye. "When I was trailing the darkspawn I did a bit of… experimenting. They really  _burn_. It's a bit weird, maybe because their flesh is so rotten. Still, it's good to know."

Anders gaped. "In a predominantly  _wooden_  city? You're not serious."

Sirius levelled him with a look. "Well spotted. I was, in fact, joking."

"I can never tell. Stupid looks so natural on you," Anders drawled.

Honestly, those two! Like cats and dogs.

… Ah.

Actually that would explain a lot.

Anyway, over the course of the day we did come up with some plausible ideas. If one decants the gold from the shit, that is.

The brainstorming really only took a few minutes to lay out what we wanted to accomplish. Making those ideas feasible took the rest of the day, a map, and a whole lot of peanuts to mark places to anchor the wards.

Warding is not a simple matter of saying spells one after the other and compounding the effects. It's a weaving process that is both highly volatile and exceedingly dangerous. A reasonable metaphor would be the creating of a tower of cards, provided one uses exploding snapcards that could go set off a chain reaction at the slightest misstep. Now, if you imagine starting from the top of the tower and working down, you have a rough idea of the difficulty involved.

Nevertheless, I would fortify the perimeter and the gates. Confusion and repelling wards by entrances to the city and main choke points would thin out their numbers.

Sirius suggested some I was unfamiliar with, namely purging, plaguing and unlucky wards. It's a Black thing apparently. We'll deal with it together; we've got no choice, we've got one wand between us.

Also, we developed a portkey system. But not for us. Teleporting in battle is almost unanimously agreed to be a bad idea. The line of sight will probably be limited to mere metres. If you go beyond that, you can't know who or what is occupying the space you're aiming for and most practitioners end up too close to something deadly, if not impaled on arrival. Unless it will stop a killing blow, the risk isn't worth it.

But you see, all the tricky mistakes one must bypass when travelling by portkey, like ensuring you materialise on the ground, not in or far above it, makes them all the more effective as a weapon.

Yellow, blue and red balls would warp on contact to the market, the docks and the arse end of nowhere respectively. Our use of them would depending on the threat and what we wanted to do with it.

"Portkeys and sticking charms: the greatest tactical advantage that was ever overlooked," I bemoaned archly. "The Archdemon has to land sometime. When it does we'll find ourselves a Warden to track it down, endeavour not to get eaten, throw a portkey at it and we will fight it in a place of our choosing. Probably somewhere we have let Sirius loose in previously."

Speaking of. Sirius will be visiting the market and the docks later today to prank the darkspawn, for lack of a more suitable term. He muttered something about triggers and sticky spots and stairs. He finished rather ominously with a request to "let everyone know not to panic if they see inexplicable fighting elephants or something."

…

**Day 215**

Zevran dropped from his fighting stance to glare suspiciously at his armor. "I'm sure that should have done more damage." My better-than-usual aimed strike had been turn to a glancing blow. He spotted the scuff mark in the deep brown leather and prodded it a little incredulously. "Slight bruising, didn't even break the skin."

"So little confidence in my protections, Zev," I grinned, the battle thrill well and truly singing. "Come on old man, can't you keep up with the youth of today anymore?"

"Ha," the assassin barked and flew at me in a whirl of silver, "Let's see how you hold against this!"

Our words were drowned in the clash of blades and I finally got a chance to relax into something that was comfortable, letting the rhythm of the duel carry me forward.

…

I suppose the mages aren't coming. Can't say I blame them. It'd be worse if I had some idle time on my hands to just sit down and freak out for a while. In that way my work is a blessing in disguise.

When I'm not wasting time in meetings with my superiors I'm making the most of time in the training yard, coaching the mages I do have and collaborating with the various leaders of the forces under my jurisdiction.

We'll dearly miss a true force of mages, but it's nothing that can be changed and thus is not worth stressing over. We will just have to make do.

…

"So let me get this straight… even if the Archdemon is killed, if it isn't by a Warden's hand, its soul jumps into another darkspawn." I looked for a sign that I'd misunderstood, but Cousland was understandably grim. "Well,  _that's_  a problem."

And yet it explains why I had to get three people in particular near that monster.

"Can you do anything about it?" Cousland asked with a hint of desperation.

"As Master of Death, you mean? I'm not a reaper. I kill things the same way other wizards to, which… would not be a good idea, evidently. In terms of the experience, I know more about souls than most people, but I don't know of anything that could stop this."

If those three Wardens die… then what? I ran a hand through my hair, wincing a little as I pulled it in my frustration. "Maybe with a few more years I could devise a way to trap the soul in an object. I know it can be done."

Now I'm very curious to know what would happen to a dementor that ate the soul of an Archdemon…  _unfathomable_  evil. Must Obliviate self immediately. I cleared my throat hastily, "Sorry Cousland, I can't help you there."

He signed, looking distinctly unsurprised. "Can you fight it, at least?"

Fighting a dragon would be tricky. Dragon hide sheds spell fire like a duck does water. I'd have to use spells that don't require that impact, such as the blinding curse, or have a secondary effect, like levitating a rock onto its head. A height and air advantage would be sublime, but we're out of luck there, so well have to compensate with creativity. I'll consult Sirius.

"I'll be there when you face it. I'll be able to give you an edge, at least."

…

"What did the little spiritual figment of Moody suggest?" my godfather's voice was loud in the night.

I sighed, "Nothing that we haven't already considered."

Sirius, from the straw pallet next to mine, suggested, "Fiendfyre?"

I bit back a wince. In the dark it was far easier to see a burning imprint of the nightmarish city form my dreams. "Let's not _help_  the darkspawn raze the place."

"Outside the gates," Anders cut in unexpectedly. I thought he'd fallen asleep long ago, but I suppose the Blight isn't light on the mind, "You could level the army in mere hours."

"Exactly," Sirius, in all likelihood, nodded proudly.

I hummed, "True. But we should focus on cutting a path to the Archdemon and ending this as quickly as possible. It its forces are destroyed, there's no telling what it would do. It could go to ground for years."

The wooden roof was rough but not at all plain. If I squinted, I could see the dark and light contours of the uneven timber, spelled out in all imaginable shades of grey.

"What are your strengths?" I asked Sirius. I wondered, for a moment, if this was one of the things I'd forgotten, or if I'd never even known. That disturbed me. "Do you know what you're going to do when this hits?"

White teeth glinted in the dark. It was a rather savage smile. "Transfiguration. Conjuring. You know the deal; lions, various birds, I even made a chimera once. It just a shame this place doesn't have the right potion ingredients, or I could really turn this city into darkspawn hell."

"Try not to squish the bystanders."

"Speak for yourself. I saw you in the courtyard this morning – I know what you're planning with those statues."

"It would be a shame not to animate them." There must be hundred scattered about the place. Ferelden's sure don't shirk on their stonework.

"The statues of  _Andraste_ , you mean," Anders clarified with amusement, "I'm fairly certain that's sacrilegious."

I grinned at the ceiling, "You recon? I thought they'd be more concerned about the mabari ones."

…

**Day 216**

'Commotion' doesn't really illustrate the scale of the shitheap we found waiting for us this morning.

A veritable army of mages glowered hostilely at the small ring surrounding them. Denerim's Templars were outnumbered twenty to one and looked all too aware of it. They were attracting attention.

Neither side moved; no one seemed prepared to provoke a confrontation when the consequences were so uncertain. For the moment, a fragile peace was upheld by sheer intimidation.

To be honest, I didn't expect the Templars to roar at the sight of me. Notice, maybe, but not roar. They swelled like one particularly nasty cat about to snap, even  _turning their backs on the veritable mage army_. The heat in the air stepped up a notch.

I missed a step in shock. Is there something in the water? Is it catching?

"What the  _f-_ "

They turned on me and those around me – but they did not move just yet; they didn't seem to dare. Accusations were flung in my direction; heathen, abomination, demon, necromancer… scoundrel?  _Charlatan!_

Come now, that's a bit harsh. Whatever I did, I can guarantee authenticity.

The Templars are seen as the holy warriors, defenders of the just and what not. When they declare a threat, the masses tend to take note. If the crowd rallied against me the odds… well, I've had better. I was a second away from cutting the losses and booking it.

"See here – get your head out of my way, sonny – hypocrites, the lot of you!" A figure elbowed through to glare at the Templars. I blinked. The Templar captain blinked. In general, there was just a lot of stunned blinking.

It was a diminutive woman, small even for a dwarf, with a face older than her years. I believe she sells flowers, but I don't know how she gets by in that business; she has the most abrasive manner of anyone I've met. I got the distinct impression she thought me a pretentious overbearing meddler. And that I'm too skinny.

I had no idea that was an endearment around here.

"Look at you, sitting on your polished arses, pretending things are normal as if stubborn ignorance will make it so."

The crowd shifted uncomfortably, grumbling as people are wont to do when confronted with ideas they'd rather avoid.

She cracked a fist in her palm rather articulately. "Who cops it when the darkspawn show up, huh? We do, us who can't fight for ourselves."

More angry grumbling, but the glares changed.

"At least this man is pointed in the right direction. He's doing something, which is more than I can say for you!"

I knew the moment when the crowd really looked at me. There was that spark of recognition – they saw a person not just another guy with sparkly fingers.

"He's with them Wardens!"

"The one behind the defences?"

" _He's_  the Dark Wolf? No! … Really?"

"I heard he took the nobility to task."

"Took them to task! Hah, he's a  _legend_  in the Arl's homestead, turned the place on its head. About time, mind you."

And there goes all predictability because  _what the hell_? They didn't just defend me, they revoked the teachings of the Chantry. That is step away from anything even remotely resembling crowd psychology.

I didn't expect this. Blackmailing and such really isn't a lucrative business for positive publicity.

"Steady," I ordered my minions, as I endeavoured to do the same.

Then, timely as ever, Cousland parted the sea of gaping onlookers, "What's going on here?"

The deadlock bowed under his presence.

A very familiar, most welcome face stepped forward. "Warden Cousland, I am Solona Amell of the Free Mages of Thedas. We heard you could use a little magical assistance."

…

The mages were invited to the royal palace; the only place with rooms large enough to fit them all comfortably, all without spilling a single drop of blood. Don't get me wrong, no one was happy about it. The ponderous question of 'after' was a tangible thing in the air; the mages would not submit and the Templars would not be able to let them go free. But they'd been recognised as volunteers and with Greagior's men to swell the ranks, there were enough Templars to provide a peace of mind, so the unity was fragile, but it was there.

Amell made herself at home in Cousland's office. But not until after I'd nearly squeezed her to death.

"It's good to see you, Harry," she laughed.

I ginned easily, "Tell me about it."

She frowned, critical eyes running over the lines of my face. "You look terrible. Did we miss the fun? We got a taste of some when we arrived…"

I scoffed. I did  _not_  look that bad, "I am all for ignoring that incident entirely. And actually, you're just in time for the easy part. You cut it close, though."

My young friend continued evaluating me silently. "There was some opposition to your proposal," she said finally, "I had to smooth some ruffled feathers, stoke some egos and allay far too many fears of a trap. You get the idea. We've all learnt to be far too suspicious, these last few months. It hasn't been easy."

I would imagine so. Striking out into the big wide world after being raised in their close Circle communities would be intimidating and not a little difficult. They wouldn't even know how to take care of themselves; the simple things like bartering would present prime opportunities for people to take advantage of them. They banded together and their collective experience helped them all survive. In this new society, Amell came out on top. She's a good leader; reminds me of Cousland in the way that she brings people together.

It's the least surprising news I've had all day.

…

"Sorry, my friends."

Sirius looked up from critically evaluating his shoe, which was masquerading as a miniature hydra, to see Zevran in the doorway. I rolled over, the elf met my eyes. "Could I borrow you for a moment?"

"Sure," I stifled a yawn and followed him into a badly lit storeroom. "What is it?"

He hesitated, choosing his words most delicately, "I saw you talking to Luna the other day. Would I be correct in saying…?"

I shifted against the wall, unable to control my fidgeting in my unease, "She is many years dead, yes."

"How is this possible?" golden eyes implored.

"I don't know," my smile fell short. "But this isn't idle curiosity. You want something. Someone? Why?"

"I wronged her. Now that I may meet my death, too, I just – wonder."

I weighed my options. "The dead rarely bring comfort to the living," I warned seriously. The dead are at peace in ways the living can never be, and this makes them come across as cold and unfeeling. Their presence brings back the pain of their passing but they are changed just enough to make remembering them absolutely agonising. And you can no more easily turn your back on them than you can forget them. I sighed heavily, "But you need to know. I understand. Her name?"

The Stone fell into my fingers and I traced its rough contours before handing it over.

"Rinna."

I stealthily excused myself after the first gasp and stood guard outside the door. He didn't emerge for many, many minutes.

"She has forgiven me," he muttered at his knees. Zevran's palms dug into his eyes, rubbing the damp skin raw. "Why would she do such a thing?"

I slid down against the wall.

"Sometimes," I said quietly, "the people we care for love us enough to forgive us, purely because they feel like giving it. Even when we don't deserve it. Especially when we don't want it."

He looked up, his face red and more vulnerable than I'd ever seen. "It was really her, though? Not just some magic?" Something told me it would be a very bad idea to lie at that moment.

"Yes and no. I don't know what happens after death. Ironic, isn't it?" I admitted slowly with a rueful gin that forced my mouth into an uncomfortable shape. "Death changes people, how could it not? But that was her soul; a reflection of what she is now. It was real."

He nodded and visibly pulled himself together. Defences fell back in place; first the confidence, then the illusion of the cold heart. Just before the last piece slot into place, a confession slipped through.

"It is a relief to know there is just time and distance between us and those we have lost. It is not the end."

"There is that, at least," I agreed. Imagine my astonishment when I actually meant it. My situation is a little odd, admittedly; there is an unbridgeable time and a different distance separating the dead from me. I might never be with them fully, but now I see that they are with me. Nothing can take that away.

"This has been unnecessarily heavy," Zevran smirked self-depreciatingly, "I did not mean to take up so much of your time."

"Never mind that. Come on, Anders wanted to go to the Tavern for lunch." And if his façade cracked a little, I didn't call him out on it.

…

Frankly, I've been in taverns with more appealing atmospheres that the aura of Certain Doom that stifled the air of the Gnawed Noble, but the imminent threat of a Blight will do that.

We did our best to fix that. We all but conquered the place.

It took three tables and several strained muscles to sit us all together, but the owner didn't even grouch at us for moving his furniture.

Ripped "it's Thomas, stop calling me that" Howe's family was an open secret; Zevran's profession went unacknowledged; Sirius' frequently disputed origins went unquestioned; Loghain's position was insignificant; Amell's responsibilities were on hold; the Boss was just another slightly scary woman; the carta and simple thugs didn't hide in the shadows.

Alistair was right; strife does bring people together. It was an odd group of misfits I'd managed to assemble. We were just getting to know each other, most of us for the first time, as if there wasn't a high probability that we wouldn't be able to meet together in the flesh once this was over. There we none around me that I could bare to lose, but battle is a lottery and any number of these faces could be staring empty at the sky before the night is through.

I do believe we can win this. I'd drag my people away by force if I thought we didn't have a chance.

Winning is never without cost, but I think we have done good work to help our chances. Certainly, we have done all that we could have.

…

Night rose early.

Loghain came to stand beside me on the battlements, face set in grim lines at the sight before us. "That darkness on the horizon, it's like no sunset I've ever seen."

"It's the Blight," I watched him from the corner of my eye.

His eyes closed for a long moment. When they open, he growled, "I've been a fool."

True. But aren't we all at some point? "Make up for it. Earn their respect again," I advised simply.

…

The wind shifted and we could smell them. It was permeating and pungent, seeping into every pore and making any sensible creature feel ill.

Non-combatants massed behind the strongest walls the city could provide. Children cried as their parents went to fight, people screamed as their partners took up arms. The city population was divided into the terrified and the grim.

But the army wasn't overpowered by their fear; the Warden's saw to that. Alistair was a force of his own. He beat inspiration and optimism into people, no matter how much they wanted to feel otherwise. Finally, we saw the leader that man could be.

Men, eves and dwarves, Templars and mages converged together, all below the young, magnetic warrior; the Warden that would be a King. Alistair called for us and the city  _roared_. I fancy even the darkspawn could feel it.

War marched in us all.

I turned to my division leaders, caught up in the flurry of activity. "I want at least three mages with each battalion of archers. Place them on the rooftops. Have the infantry bottleneck the roads, ensure that the darkspawn mass in range of the arrows. Move it!"

They hastened. I couldn't work up a grin.

"Cousland! We are going to have words after this," I promised ominously. "Don't try to avoid it. If you get eaten I'll call you back and we'll have double."

The Warden hefted his wicked greatsword with deceptive ease. Around him, his companions looked eager to begin. "Is that your way of telling me to be careful?"

"I may be inexplicably fond of you," I admitted, "Just a little."

He grinned, "Same to you. You're an unbelievable pest but I think you've done well to help these people. I'll ask you to do it one more time; take care of my assassin. I want to see him in one piece at the end of all this."

"Zev isn't going with you?" I asked of the Warden but my eyes tracked the elf. This appeared to be news to him too.

"I wouldn't make him do that." His hands hovered uncertainly, finally settling on Zevran's shoulder with surprisingly gentleness. "Take care of yourself, my friend."

Zevran blinked, looking at the hand with more gravity than I feel the appendage deserved, "I… yes, you as well."

Cousland nodded. "And Potter, we've got a date with the Archdemon. Try not to miss this one."

…

From the roof of Eamon's estate, we could see most of the city. There didn't appear to be rank or order as the monsters pilled over each other to breach the walls. They broke upon the stone in waves, using bodies as stepping stones to spill over the edge.

The Archdemon controls a hive mind, so in a twisted sort of way it makes sense that it'd employ a 'disturbed anthill' kind of assault. For all its reported intelligence, it's not a very good strategist. Thank Merlin for small mercies.

There was a telling zap as the first of the spawn tried to pass through the gates, instead disintegrating rather pleasingly. To my left, Sirius lent over the ledge to get a better view. The air above the walls turned yellow, shimmering like a mirage as more and more darkspawn mindlessly threw themselves at it.

The first ward overloaded and fell, taking out a legion and several small buildings as it did.

Burning as they went, the minions pressed on, but the king of all arsonists flew high above the city. The few arrows ambitiously shot at the Archdemon didn't come close to touching it.

It wouldn't fight unless it had to. We'd make it. We were good at making shit go badly.

" _Try_  to keep close to me," I drawled, drawing my knives.

Anders scoffed, readying his staff with a flourish. "Try to keep up."

I stopped by the first statue we came across. It was a small feature on a well, maybe a bear or a dog. I petted its head, "Piertotum Locomotor," and soon enough my fingers picked up vibrations. The tremors shook my arm; I gripped it harder. "Protect you city and your people."

First close by, and then increasingly far off, I heard the telling groan – the sound of stone that was moving is ways it really shouldn't.

Renditions of Andraste, mabari, famous figures, and the occasional oddity; in all sizes; in stone and metal, jumped down from their perches. Dramatically.

Following that, there was an unexpected shriek of "My wares!" from Wade's armoury when the suits of armour beat done the door from the inside to take part.

I coughed, "Oh yeah, I forgot it did that."

We reached the thick of the darkspawn and a wave of sound: people screaming, darkspawn snarling, swords, armour, explosions, and, above all, the howl of a giant. It was cut off abruptly, as I had the insurmountable pleasure of witnessing a large stature of the Maker's prophet hit the ogre with a flying tackle. Then my view was cut off and I removed the ugly head that did so.

It was mess. Spellfire rained cover down from above, backup fought alongside us, and darkspawn filled every other gap.

I don't remember most of the battle. For a while I lost myself in fighting and checking –  _always_  the checking; Anders, Zevran, Sirius, repeat.

Reducto. Zevran steadily cut his way through the ranks, keeping them off my back.

Expulso. I blew up a barrel and summoned the shrapnel through the ranks, cleaving all manner of limbs.

One of Sirius' monsters sailed over my head and crushed several darkspawn in my path. My mind was focused, if not clear. I had enough sense to remember the best thing about transfiguration is the flexibility. It changes the shape, not the state of being. A box is a box is a box, no matter whether it looks and rampages like a tyrannosaurus. Spells that only work on objects will have the same effect on these.

I aimed my daggers at the dinosaur and laughed, "Engorgio! Come on, Sirius, you can do better than that!"

"Damn right!" he hollered back, "I'm just getting started." He poked a conjured griffin between the eyes and cast again before letting it loose, "Geminio."

My eyes widened when realisation struck and a frankly evil cackle was startled out of me.

Imposing your will on a creation, like the dinosaur, is difficult. Most wizards can only keep track of two or three things at a time. But here's the distinction: conjured things are literally pulled from nothing. You multiply nothing, you still have nothing, so the ensuing exponential growth will hardly put a strain on Sirius' control. It's my favourite loophole. Conjured things don't last long at all, but they don't need to.

"Regroup!" I ordered, before we could get buried in an ever expanding mass of griffins.

The battle tide swept a group of darkspawn between me and Anders, my heart stuttered when he disappeared from view and I  _eviscerated_  what was between us in some way that I don't even recall.

Together, still counting four, we backed out some alleys to observe our handiwork.

The lithe, tawny animals writhed, screeching with the power of a thousand bagpipes. Equipped with talons, claws, ripping beaks and considerable size, they'd pounce and shred the darkspawn. And as they made contact, another would spring forth from nowhere.

Anders pointedly edged away from Sirius, eyes wide.

Soon enough, the density of mythological cat beasts far exceeded what the small square could hold. The chaos from our little sector spread its winds and spilled outwards.  _That_  is why you only give the power of self-replication to the ones that can fly.

My godfather dusted his hands theatrically, watching the pandemonium like a proud father. Zevran clapped him on the back, mouth a little open, obviously still processing what he'd just witnessed.

Whistling and swaggering so hard it must have been painful, Sirius led the way towards the clash of steel: the sound of a more conventional conflict that was in need of out intervention.

Then it all got a bit blurry. We swept through mass after mass of darkspawn but there was no end to them. My mind boiled down to protect and kill. I caught a sword across my cheek that I didn't even feel.

It was terrifying.

In an abstract way I could see the blood well, feeling run down my face. That's all I recall from that time. It was red, unlike the horrible black stuff I was spilling. Slash, parry, curse, repeat.

When I came back to myself, I thought I'd lost something once again. I could feel that last little bit of my sanity on the edge. But I had bigger things to worry about, because I only snapped out of my frenzy when the ground erupted from below.

Darkspawn come up through the earth in a marvellously coordinated attack. One moment we were making progress, then the city was filled in minutes. The Archdemon roared, untouchable from up above, and I thought it sounded vindictive.

...

"Impedimenta!" I swept my arms in an arc and the entire scene slowed to a crawl from the force of the spell.

Dust and water hung in the air, snarling monsters stopped in the process of crawling out of the tunnels, terror froze on the faces of our allies.

I was surprised to notice it was raining. The ominous black clouds had spilled over.

The water had run down my hair, drained down my robes and pasted the leather to my skin, but it hadn't washed away the sticky blood. My blades, robes and skin were strained with it.

Still, my heart hammered. The darkspawn could have erupted anywhere. Everywhere.

I pulled Sirius away from the grasping claws of a Hurlock and kicked the monster's face in for the good measure.

I thrust my palm forward and a stream of water blasted forth, the sound of the rushing water stark in the eerie silence. Puddles formed around the feet of the surfaced darkspawn and the runoff soon flooded the tunnels. I maintained the spell until sweat dripped into my eyes from the effort and the tunnels brimmed full. Only then, I snapped out a harsh freezing spell and pinned them in their grave. They wouldn't be getting through there.

I let my concentration slip from the slowing jinx and people finished stumbling and rocks fell.

"Let's get to the Palace; if they've broken in, the women and children are done for!" We'd wasted enough time.

Moving too suddenly, I stumbled and the world titled alarmingly. Zevran caught my arm, murmured, "Are you injured?"

I didn't think so. There was a shakiness in me that went past bone deep, which I pegged as exhaustion. Damn it.

I fumbled in my pockets for the lyrium. The glass was warm to touch. It was a vile thing, but a necessary one; I knocked it back. Instantly, power flushed through my veils like lightning, setting my nerves tingling and going straight to my head. I gave a shiver of disgust and need.

A narcotic, instant power source. How was the entire population not already addicted? If the Chantry was less stringent over who they handed lyrium to, they would have far more disciples.

Potential world domination aside, we found ourselves by the walls – a long way from the Palace, even without countless distractions along the way.

We broke from the fighting and scaled a building, getting to the highest point we could find with only a few slippery dramas. I accepted a hand up from one of my men stationed there. We both reflexively ducked to avoid a griffin as it dived into the fray below.

"Those things give me the creeps," the archer shared.

Fair enough.

"Forget the darkspawn," Anders huffed, leaning on his staff. "This city is going to be overrun with griffins by the end of the battle."

Sirius shrugged. "Exponential growth. I'd give it another five minutes."

We apparated to the next clear roof in our line of sight, I side-alonged Zevran and Sirius went with Anders. I was lucky to have the assassin with me. In the conditions it took two people to stick the landing.

Unfortunately that technique only worked for so long; Denerim isn't the flattest of cities and switching between buildings necessitated a bit of a detour and many decapitations. Still, we didn't stop to smell the roses. We ploughed through the quickest route without mercy.

Until, that is, we reached the hell hole that once hosted the markets. It'd been repurposed as the warping spot for the opponents that needed to be killed, but would have been annoyingly tricky to deal with then and there.

They were  _supposed_  to appear in a giant, ridiculously reinforced, warded cage. With luck the new arrival would superimpose on the old, making things easier for the forces picking them off.

It turns out there are side effects of throwing the smartest, strongest darkspawn in one place, and apparently brute force beats magic because I definitely did not leave the cage in that shape. The sides were bowed and the top caved in, as if a building had fallen on it. Huge gashes lined the roof and cleaved the bars. That thing was more magic than metal, it shouldn't have been possible to do that much damage. Enemies trickled through a gap, slow enough for the forces to take them down, but with that ogre general pushing against the opening, that wouldn't be the case for long.

"What happened?" I gaped. My first instinct was to find the guy in charge, because in these instances you just want someone to yell at. Stress management for authority.

But the man in charge turned out to be Ripped, and he was too competent to blame. He looked pained, but a quick glance didn't turn up any injuries. These were mostly his men; he felt every hit they took.

"The Archdemon attacked," he said, and really, that was an acceptable excuse. "It took out the cage and the bridge to the Alienage in one swoop."

There's always  _something_. I sighed. "Right, out the way."

I clenched my fists and the bars bent to my will. With a terrible groan of metal they shifted back in place. The ogre didn't stand a chance; it roared as the sudden movement snapped its trunk of an arm in all sorts of wrong directions.

Anders winced but my concentration was unwavering.

In hindsight, it is exactly that sort of polarised attentiveness that made it easy for an arrow slip through awareness and straight into my in leg.

Padfoot howled and planted himself in front of me, beside Zevran who tracked the path of the missile's flight. Anders had his hands at the wound before I'd even registered it.

I staggered. My eyes tracked down in disbelief, and yep, there was delicate fletching protruding from below my knee.

The confirmation seemed to be all it took. My mind lit up with a blinding pain, the backs of my eyelids dancing in time with the tingling burn. Wait –  _tingling_?

"There's lyrium in the wound," Anders confirmed, brows furrowed deeply. That explains how the hell it managed to get through my defensive spells, but not in the least why my enemies were dipping their weapons in the stuff. Maybe it was some kind of lyrium-infused poison. I'll never know. I promptly vanished the vile thing.

The healer squawked and slapped a hand over the tear, "Idiot! Do you want to bleed dry?"

I winced, "Anders. Pressure.  _Ow_."

"Idiot." He repeated slowly, glaring at me. Magic fingers did they best they could; even with the presence of the lyrium he healed the skin and muscle, which was a damn sight better than I managed last time. It was superficial. The ache remained, but it wasn't anything I couldn't work through.

In fact, I channelled that pain and anger. The Cage version 2.0 came equipped with giant spikes set to impale any large thing approaching from any direction. They were a lot sharper than they would have been ten minutes previously.

Juvenile, yet effective.

"There," Zevran pointed, eyes glinting in a way that one does not want to see from a trained assassin. "On the ledge."

The figure was tall and bulky, presumably a decent archer. I couldn't see much beyond the shape – the light was all wrong. Still, something felt off. I itched to chase it but, "We don't have time. Head for the Palace."

We carved a foothold for the men. Barricades formed, fires were controlled; they dug in to stay. With the situation under control, we recruited some muscle to back up our defensive strike, but it was Ripped who rallied them.

Cut off from the Alienage, we detoured through the noble districts, blocking the way behind us as we went. A combination of glisseo, triggered by darkspawn, turned the stairs into ramps, and creative use of the summoning charm kept the monsters off our backs.

The tide turned slowly, imperceptivity, against the odds and in our favour. We made faster progress, running into far less darkspawn. Even the number of griffins began to diminish without the enemies necessary to sustain them.

That, apparently, warranted retribution. At last, the Archdemon swooped, ready with another breath of devastating fire to thin our ranks.

And that was a mistake.

All heard a roar of fury and pain when the great dragon pitched to the side, the torn fabric of its wing fluttering uselessly as the wind passed it by. A small figure plummeted from its back; above him, the Archdemon smashed into Fort Drakon.

I paused. The Palace was to my left, the Fort to my right. All those defenceless people… someone had to fight for them, but the Wardens would face the Archdemon soon, prepared to give it all to end the Blight here, now, before any more damage could be done. We had a deal.

The last time I had to make such a decision, it was only my own life I was choosing to give up. I trusted my friends' abilities, their will to live; it wasn't a question trust. But shit happens and you can't do anything unless you're there. I had to have faith that they wouldn't run into anything they couldn't handle.

Faith is not an easy thing to find when one has experience.

"Go on to the Palace. I must – I…"

First I only saw their weariness. Shoulders slumped and cloths awry, deep frowns and dark eyes. It took me a moment to recognise it was just physical. Their dark eyes expressed understanding.

"Some of us could come with you."

I had no line of sight to the top of the Fort; it just wasn't possible apparate safely. That left the front door, and for that I would have liked numbers, but you can't have everything. I could move far quicker alone.

I considered it, but ultimately, I shook my head. "I'll go ahead. Anyone who wants to fight a dragon is welcome to follow."

Ripped cast a serious glance over his men. All were still in fit condition. "The Palace isn't far. We'll push a good pace and then we're right behind you, Harry."

With a final nod, I turned and moved forward, against the part of me that needed to stay with them. Don't die without me, I plead. Any of you. Don't you  _dare_  die.

Racing through alleys, onto the rooves, I took the quickest way from A to B without need of the tedious main roads. I was grateful that I'd had so much practice being chased around Denerim that I could do it faultlessly now. Those roads were packed with the dead and dying, and those fighting for their lives that would be overcome soon.

I knew the roads but the cobles were slick; my bad leg burned and my lungs soon followed suit. I still crossed a city block it in record time, so it was worth it.

Staring up at the mountainous fort, I was unsurprised to see that a platoon of darkspawn and an ogre bared the way in, because time was of the essence so  _of_   _freaking_   _course_  they did.

That in itself wouldn't have been an overwhelming problem. No, the issue came about due to the troops engaging them. See, I would've blown the darkspawn to high heaven, but Templars are so  _touchy_  about that sort of thing.

The Templars were a large group, at least ten together. I'd wanted them spread throughout the city to counter any darkspawn emissaries that cropped up, but given what I know now, I'm not all that surprised that they'd ignored my orders.

But in the battle I didn't think too much of it; I rolled my eyes and dived in, and when the howling had stopped and more blood pooled at my feet, I looked up to see company. One Templar had closed with me. Her hand still gripped her sword; her eyes were fevered behind that blood-splatted helm. She moved deliberately between me and the Fort.

I straightened. Annoyingly, she was still taller. "Move aside, soldier." I recognised her as a key advocator in my personal cohort of stalking Denerim Templars. I think she had it out for me for The Bludger Incident. Maybe. I could be wrong – there were  _a lot_  of Templars both in and out of The Incident.

She didn't move, and my bluff fell through. I found myself at a loss. I never dealt with much insubordination in my lengthy experience. Not to brag of anything, but I had my minions pretty well trained. Anyone who encountered my reputation was either awed, because hello,  _Harry Potter_ , or terrified because, yeah…  _Harry frickin Potter_.

Or both.

Both was not uncommon.

I couldn't shoulder past her, that'd hurt and I'd probably just bounce off; the ensuing collapse of my dignity would not endear me to the testy factions.

My only other option was magic. And it's a substantiated fact that the only way to provoke Templars faster than casting a spell in their presence, is casting a spell on them. So, really, magic was in that grey area between a bad idea and certain disaster.

Luckily, some Templars were more acquainted with sense.

"You're out of line, recruit." At the blatant lack of discipline, Commander Greogior was a big scary lot of Severely Unimpressed. "I'll be having a word with your commander. If we survive this you're on dishwashing duty for the foreseeable future."

She wavered, and I don't blame her. No one likes the make Greogior angry. "But, Sir, he is –"

"A mage. Indeed. Anyone  _else_  feeling particularly astute, today?" Greogior took in their guilty shifting incredulously. He deliberately toed a darkspawn corpse.

"Boys," he admonished, " _Timing_."

There was a scattering of "sir, yes sirs" in the background. Greogior shook his head. "Make that false god bleed, Potter."

I knew there was a reason he was my favourite. "Then all bets are off, right?" His eyebrow arched. I grinned, "With any luck you'll be on my case by Tuesday."

Fort Drakon was dark. It almost totally lacked windows, and many torches had been killed in action. The shadows contained still groaning corpses, terrible shrieks that lay in wait, or Hurlocks that sprung without finesse. It was a place that one shouldn't rush through. To get around that, I tried being invisible.

It didn't work.

It turns out that darkspawn noses are stronger than their eyes, which makes sense given they usually live in total darkness, and being invisible just made my spatial awareness plummet.

The pace I was forced to was  _aggravating_. I had to fight for every metre, I took wrong turns, and received far too many surprises. But it was still progress. From that point on, somehow it got  _worse_.

I can't decide which lesson I'm supposed to be learning, but I'm pretty sure it's either: you can be an expert and still never beat bad timing, or that subclause of Sod's Law that states if nothing can go wrong, it will anyway.

I passed through a room in the Fort. Monumental, I know. I'd been doing the exact same thing since I'd slipped through the front door.

I wasn't paying all that much attention to the blokes in armour because, yeah,  _siege_  and  _monsters_. The more concerning humanoids, at the time, were brandishing crowbars and baring sharp teeth.

Even though their particular brand of shiny metal was the Templar kind, I was unconcerned. I had it ingrained that it was currently  _us_  against  _them_. How naïve.

We took down an emissary with comparative ease. Then they grinned and it was suddenly cold, or maybe that was just my blood instinctively freezing.

We all knew I was in range.

A blue wave of energy swept over me before I could so much as turn on the spot. I resisted it. My bad leg gave out. Dazed and disarmed, it took all I had just to engage unconsciousness in a stalemate.

"Its lights out for you! May the Fade treat you well, monster." His arms moved too fast for my sluggish eyes to follow. The pommel set off a flash of light and pain. Something in my skull gave way with a snap. The rattling of my teeth carried me into the darkness; the kind that greeted the dying.

The swirling mist was familiar, but where there had once been an ethereal train station, now a black city defined the landscape. A landscape that was filled with a bestial screech upon my arrival.

Hardly in control of myself, I tried to take anger out with a swift kick to a book that didn't move as it should have. My screeching gave way to more creative cursing.

As if in response, a deep chucked reverberated through the area like thunder. Grating, halting words formed, the volume strained painfully on my eardrums. "And so it begins."

A dark, purely malevolent cloud coalesced right before me – the culmination of some act. From it, emerged a presence I hadn't sensed since it tried to hijack my godfather's body.

Breathless with fury, I threw a curse at it, but despite being far larger and bulkier than I've ever seen, Rage dodged faster than a squirrel on crack.

The dark vapour curled around the demon as it moved, sparking vigorously. That gave me pause. I got a sense from the cloud, as if it were sentient. And hungry and  _pleased_.

I was struck by a hunch accompanied by a strong feeling of dread.

I made an effort to suppress my anger, and as I did, the cloud cooled to a simmer. A connection. Those were  _never_  good. You can't fight yourself.

A slightly clearer head offered other benefits, like the chance to assert my priorities: I needed to get back. I tried to wake up. I could feel my body on the edge of my awareness, heavily out of it. I pinched myself just to be sure.

Damn it. Those Templars could ruin everything! They were  _metal_ , just so irrationally… angry…

Oh.

Oh bugger it all. Rage.

"You influenced them," I accused.

It had stalked closer in my distraction. I suddenly found it  _right there_  and recoiled. That gaping mouth stretched far wider than any mouth should have been capable of, giving an eerie grin.

"It was not difficult," the demon purred. "They begged for it. They want to express their hate; they barely needed an excuse."

I narrowed my eyes, "I suppose I should thank you for the dreams, too." My suspicions fell into the holes in the puzzle and the picture became clear.

"Yes."

That  _asshole_. It was single-handedly responsible for the stress I'd been under. I thought to ask about the arrow wound but I didn't need to. Very few people have access to lyrium. Fewer people have access to Templars, and I'm not  _that_  unpopular with the clergy. Probably.

"I don't understand," I muttered homicidally. That can be done, it just takes some practice.

It looked down on me without condescension; instead it oozed a certain conviction that only the truly confident can manage. "You will."

Was this some sort of mission to piss me off? To get me to channel my anger? That'd certainly been the effect, if not the intention.

"You've been angering me, using it to strengthen... whatever that is," I gestured to cloud. "You tried to possess Sirius… it was never about him, was it?"

The grating voice dripped with satisfaction. "No. That one is powerful. But his soul was worn away, it lacks the capacity. He will always carry a shadow with him. But you… love it or hate it, you have always had a great passion for life. And more than anything, rage and hope are about  _passion_."

"Hope?" I was thrown. I struggled not to let that anger me. "What does hope have to do with anything?"

" _Everything_." Deep, coal like eyes flared. The voice morphed into a snarl. "That passion belongs to me!"

A clawed hand flew at me, as if to tear the emotion through my face. Its touch  _burned_.

My eyes rolled back and I registered that the only good that could come of this would be to snap me awake.

It didn't.

I couldn't escape from this nap until my physical body got its act together.

"Back off!" I flashed a blasting spell at it, but the bright light was absorbed by the cloud which swelled with indulgence. Ugh. Hypothesis confirmed.

Sensing that I had reluctantly yielded, the demon released its grip but crowded too close again, just a hairsbreadth away. It radiated a heat that seared my skin.

"Give in. Give up. Without your magic, your tricks, you are nothing. My Templars will keep it from you. Your friends will die because of your choices," it prowled past, tossed another stinging barb over its shoulder; "That should come as nothing new, by now."

There's a saying – something about sticks and whatever and words will never hurt me? Stupid proverb. Utterly untrue. Words have always been the worst weapons.

"I will have you," it growled, leaning in, forcing me to bend or burn. Its breath smelt of brimstone. "Your power is worthy of my strength."

The promise it conveyed made me shiver, despite the sweltering temperature. I remained stubbornly silent. Unfortunately, it was the kind of silence you stand by when wit has escaped you.

"You will welcome me now or later.  _That_  is your choice." It snorted at the rebellion in my eyes. "You could resist… but how quickly can you pull your body together if the pieces are spread across a city? Fast enough to save your friends? Darkspawn or Templar, it is only a matter of time. Time you are wasting."

Even Anders, right though he may have been about Rage's hidden bounds, would not have been able to conceive this ruse. I was tempted.

"You will choose because it is you only option." And it was angry and unrefined, but it was  _persuasive_. "Come now, you pride yourself for being pragmatic, for taking action where others stall."

My head pounded and blood sung in my ears. Part of me wanted to give in, and that part wasn't small or quiet. It petrified me. Overwhelmed, I blindly backed away from Rage but it was behind me, too; no, it was everywhere.

It was so  _easy_  to be angry, to fall back on familiar patterns of loathing and self-pity. To rage at the Dursleys and Dumbledore and Voldemort for ruining my childhood, and at myself for ruining the rest.

Its voice dropped below the scope of human hearing, but somehow I felt it, "You would still be Harry. Your friends would live. You would never be alone again. Give in."

I'm not sure where it came from, but the thought was stark and powerful. The knowledge that pulled from me back from the edge?

Anders would be  _insufferable_.

The contrast was so jarring that I winced. Then I really considered it and shuddered again. "No thanks."

That gave it pause.

For a moment I thought it might have expressed surprise, but when it tilted its head, its tone was just dry. "After all that the world has thrown at you, you still find yourself able to fight. Curious human, how do you do it?"

Unbidden, I thought of all other broken lives that had touched mine. Words formed themselves.

"The world can push and shove, until we reach the breaking point and want nothing more than to end." One last mission for an assassin that didn't want to succeed. A tomb in the Tower, a year filled with nothing but crushing solitude. An innocent mind caged by dementors and echoing past mistakes.

All those years just going on because  _what else was there_? Existing only because death rejected me, obsessed with the past. I hadn't lived until now, surrounded by souls that were just as fractured as mine.

"When we hate to look at the world as it is, we can see it as we would like it to be. We have always had that power, but from the other side of that breaking point it's not a dream. We make it happen because going in  _any_  direction is better than going back."

"So you fight. You hope." Its voice was dim in the haze of my awareness, like Rage was a far off presence.

"We fight because we can conceive a future that's worth fighting for. We believe that tomorrow will be better, so we can withstand today."

Hope isn't a joyful thing – it is strongest when the path is uncertain and dark. That's what distinguishes it from the satisfaction of things going well, or the confidence of when you know things will work out.

Hope is a struggle. And that makes it powerful. To give up hope is to accept that you can't change circumstance, but to find hope is to harness something more substantial than a wish; it is action.

"The world is a bitch – it doesn't deserve our surrender," I decided finally. And then I was curious. What was of such interest to a grumpy demon?

"Can't you do that?" As I asked, I realised it was a stupid question.

If there's anything I've learnt about spirits, it's that they depend on us. We can't even agree on the laws of nature that govern our worlds, so emotions, surely, must be the only thing people and spirits can relate to. Emotion is point that breaks down the distinctions between us.

On second thought… No, it is not the only thing: we all want to better ourselves. That was the lightbulb moment. "I've been asking all the wrong things of you, haven't I?"

I know what it wants now; it told me: passion, rage and hope. It has been more honest with me this time than in any of the past charades. But what business does a rage demon have with  _hope_?

Spirits and demons. For all the Chantry's teachings, I've never seen much of a difference. If you ignore the rather fuzzy labels that we love to apply to things, like good and evil, what is a demon? An embodiment of an emotion. And a spirit? Exactly the same.

It talks of passion as if it is its entire world. I suppose that's true, if rage is what comes when passion is wild. If passion is directed… I suppose one variation of that would be hope, like the other side of a coin.

Hope must be a nigh impossible state for a demon; it requires a certain level of creativity to take in the facts and come up with something higher. And no one  _ever_  accused demons of being creative. They only copy and apply the things they have seen in our minds.

The Fade is basically a box with unlimited potential and the only ones that can truly manipulate it can't think outside of a tiny little square. There is no intensity. Everything one sees is blanketed, pointless, like a novel falling short of expectations.

Spirits reflect what people think, not how they do it. Only imagination unlocks possibilities. The ability to think and change and make decisions based on what  _could be_  – that is vision.

The answer hit me with all the power and pain that accompanies an epiphany. Seeing things from the demon's point of view was a cultural experience that threatened to overwhelm me with confusion.

But there was one point I was certain of. They want to better themselves. They don't know what, exactly, they're searching for, but they want the tools to find it, the tools that only we have: imagination.

My head cleared. I wasn't even angry with Rage, not really. My mind was too focused on the things I could not know, and the things I did. Maybe my friends could survive and kill the Archdemon without me. Maybe they can't. Whatever the outcome, I would  _not_  give into power this time. I would not lose my friends to  _that_ again.

Fighting was pointless, hiding would be fruitless, giving in would be senseless. I could prolong this deadlock just to put off the inevitable, but I wouldn't.

In the way that occurs in some dreams, I could sense wakefulness in the distance. My body was on the repair; I felt invincible. I am above even the restraints of death – nothing could keep me.

I didn't give into Rage, opting to walk away instead. Raising my hand in mimicry of the way the demon had so often cast me out of its realm, I drew the magic of the Fade around me and ripped. I tore the fabric of the world and left it behind.

The demon stood in its swirling cloud, head still cocked curiously to the side, oddly passive.

I turned my back.

I didn't see the cloud begin to glow white.

…

I woke, gasping, properly in my body. The stone floor dug into my back. My bad leg sat at an unfortunate angle. My eyelids felt unreasonably heavy. All to be expected. What struck me was that I could still sense the strange energies of the Fade nearby.

I lay on the floor of Fort Drakon, but above me the world opened into a Fade skyscape. As my mind processed that peculiarity, I became aware of the humming of the tear around me. The point where the world met the Fade, with no barriers between them, was outlined in a burning green.

This world was governed by physics and the other by magic: the laws of one could not exist in the other. The tear was shrinking for that very reason; it bowed to logic and stopped existing simply because it could not. The veil seeled over once more.

But not before another entity stepped through.

It did not look quite like Rage. It was the same size and general shape, but it held itself more upright, unlike the rage demon who'd hunched like it was containing something that wanted to explode.

Rage's flames had been stoked by the intensity of its emotion, but this spirit did not burn with ruthless abandon. It glowed with inner fire. It was all of Rage's passion in a shell that was no longer festering and directionless. This fire was harnessed; controlled.

"It is a rare day that a mortal earns the respect of Hope. It is rarer still, when Hope learns from one." The volume was lower, its tone calmer and yet, more than ever before, it was a voice you couldn't help but listen to.

But with that, Rage, now Hope, just left – dove straight into the ground, poof and gone. Apparently it was no longer interested in driving around in my body, or carrying through its threats. Or that's what I'm assuming. It stepped around my prone body and went on its way, but who knows?

I wasn't sure if that was a good thing. Considering my previous experience with this particular demon, it probably wasn't. That was unfortunate, but there were more pressing matters. Those Templars. The Blight. The Archdemon.

Just the little, everyday things.

Speaking of Templars. When one puts anger out in the world, it doesn't just go away when its benefactor has an identity crisis. The Templars were angry, they were irrational, they'd obviously noticed that I was awake. Maybe the rift opening above me had clued them in.

When the next smite hit me, I managed to stay conscious. I suspect it had less to do with physical strength or mental tenacity, more that I was acclimatising to having my magic torn from me.

But let's run with tenacity.

I had one thing in my favour – they hadn't taken the time to kick my blades out of reach. I don't know why. In Thedas, it's never safe to assume that recently dead people won't get up and start using them.

I had to flop ungracefully onto my side, but I curled my fingers around a hilt. Realistically, I wouldn't be able to do much with it in this state. I slipped it into a sheath with my no good, shaky hands.

Then I turned into Prongs. They startled. Understandable. Smited mages do not do magic, and people in general tend to stay person-shaped.

But my Animagus is a part of me, even more than magic is a part of me. They can't reach that deep.

I staggered upright. My head swam and my vision tunnelled. I had that annoying, prickly feeling in my foot. The running would shake some circulation into it.

My legs surged, hooves scrambled for purchase. I peddled air and landed on my rump more than once.

A sword caught my hide. Not lethal. Nothing less would stop me. I moved on. They didn't follow. I lost them quicker than I thought I would; it was like they weren't even trying.

Running was, by no means, a small feat. I am a big stag. Large, antler-burdened deer do not go well with narrow doors and other urban hurdles. Stairs were a nightmare and sharp corners were a hazard at the speed I was pushing and with the coordination I was employing.

I ascended the Fort, running, slipping and slamming with all the silence and grace of a troop of tap-dancers in a minefield. Subtle? No. The time for subtlety was over. I was late.

Consequently, everyone knew I was coming.  _Everyone_.

I chose to mow down the darkspawn rather than to stop, transform, gasp down some lyrium and engage them more conventionally.

Well, when I say choose… I was working towards one thing, the rest didn't factor well with my animal brain. All I recognised then was that magic-less, short human bodies were slow and squishy.

I reached the top and the door before me was ajar and caved in, like it'd recently been kicked by something obscenely large.

I couldn't stop in time. I probably wouldn't have tried, anyway; I only recognised that the gap wasn't wide enough when I heard the wood splinter, and my momentum was arrested as my antlers caught on the planks. My head was abruptly wrenched to one side, sending me bowling through a group of very startled monsters.

They shouldn't have stood so close together. Bad strategy.

They backed away from the large mammal in their midst, now baying, kicking in every direction and swinging its head wildly as it tried to right itself. I'm told I was also foaming at the mouth, eyes wide and white. I realise now the darkspawn may have been under the impression I was just another one of Sirius' indomitable creations.

I didn't wait around for them to figure out otherwise. I had to find the Wardens. It was only a matter of following my ears to the epicentre of chaos and then traversing the roof, which was much more conductive to the movement of a large animal. I was there in no time.

I skidded to a halt (and only narrowly avoided ploughing into Leliana, too), with heaving flanks, my bung leg barely supporting my weight. For a moment I just stood and breathed, waiting for my heart to slow down and my head to gather the metal processes together to stimulate the change.

I began to feel every one of a hundred cuts and bruises, some of them fairly serious. I ached from head to foot. Not an ideal state to fight in. Transforming just made my injuries more obvious.

On the incline below us, Cousland was occupied. He was one of many small, almost insignificant figures darting around and under one of the largest dragons I'd ever seen.

Her body alone was the size of a bus, never mind the rest. The neck and tail certainly couldn't be disregarded; both were flexible, muscular and fast. One end swung with whip-like ferocity, the other carried her head.

Merlin, that head. She had spines and teeth in places that there shouldn't be; the flesh around them swollen with infection. Wicked, intelligent eyes tracked her scuttling prey.

Her legs ended in claws. Her scales were tough, flat and slick with rain. As I watched, she crushed a man with an idle step.

And Cousland was down there swinging his sword, succeeding only in not getting eaten, and barely at that. His greatsword looked tiny next to the dragon's teeth.

So yeah. He was very occupied.

Wordlessly, I downed another lyrium potion. I'd be needing it. The horrible feeling of power and warmth stole any comfort I could have gotten from the familiarity of my magic.

Wynne, nearby, wasn't quite as busy as the foot soldiers. They mustn't have been fighting long, thank Merlin.

"Young man,  _what_  have you done to yourself?" I take it back; Merlin, you rotten bastard.

No matter how old you get, healers are always scary. I felt inexplicably guilty, even though it was my body, and the doors had slammed over most of my options. It wasn't  _my_  fault my last ditch effort didn't come equipped with state-of-the-art armour.

The old woman glared critically and swept a general refreshing aura over me. The cuts itched as they closed, one large gash on my side in particular. Still, I signed in relief as my synapses stopped screaming at me. I remained lightheaded, but I was no longer slowly bleeding out.

"Thanks. I needed that." It was a small comfort that she didn't hate me enough to go against her pledge as a healer.

The headcount was a reflex by then: Wynne, Cousland, Leliana, Oghren "huh, he really does fight like the devil while drunk", Loghain, Alistair.

My heart faltered, for a moment, because I couldn't find the others on the field. I prayed that the Warden's group had split up, not that these were the survivors. But I wouldn't have put it past that dragon.

I decided for some foolish, now forgotten reason, that I needed her attention. Sirius, I'm sure, would have something snarky to say about that.

"Lumos maxima!" It's useful when the situation calls for a large scale blinding.

The nearest darkspawn howled and cringed while my nearest allies swore at me and then took advantage of the distraction.

The Archdemon blinked and snaked its great head around, teeth snapping.

In the face of death– ah, um… well, the principle of the idea remains, I could only wonder if the personification of terror had always been so hideously…  _purple_.

I think that was the pain and exhaustion, possibly the lyrium rush talking.

With her gaze on me, Cousland ducked and danced under the dragon, swinging his huge blade down on the back of her ankle, right on the protruding tendons.

Impervious scales or no, that had to hurt.

A purple leg kicked back in reflex even as the Archdemon sprung away from the sword. The foot caught Cousland in the chest and he went flying, landing heavily some metres away. She screamed and turned back to swat the Warden like a horse would a fly.

That wouldn't do.

I broke rule one: I apparated in the battlefield. I miscalculated a little; I had to think fast and she was moving faster… you'll never hear me say it, but I didn't intend to end up  _that_  close to her mouth. I fired off a bone breaker by instinct and the close range, more than the effect, threw her head back, giving us enough time to run like hell.

But she was in the optimal position to bathe us in flames. I dived one way, Cousland the other. Between us, I felt the very air sizzling and boiling. The heat alone blistered my skin. I was toasted, but not fried. It hurt like hell.

I growled, and rolled. I fired from the ground, straight into the jaws that were prepping for a second go, "Langlock!"

Effective immediately, the Archdemon adopted a strangled expression, appearing almost constipated.

"Ha, let's see you breath fire through your tongue, bitch!" I crowed.

"Nicely done, Potter," I grabbed the offered hand and the Warden heaved me up with ease. "Thought you'd never show up."

I'd argue that later, for now, we had to ensure there was a later. "What do you need?"

"See what you can do about the tail and wings," he ordered, bracing himself for another charge. "Slow it, confuse it; anything to take the edge off."

Confuse it… right, I wished Sirius was there.

Dragons in general were known for being titanic beasts of very few weaknesses. They're notoriously hard to hold under the influence of spells, they have extraordinary senses and a brain between their ears. She was a like dragon  _on steroids_.

When they lack weaknesses, you must turn their strengths against them.

I proceeded to make myself as obvious and annoying as possible. I gave myself an overpowering smell. I made my hair and cloths flash neon colours. With every step, my shoes emitted an ear-splitting whistle at a frequency that only dogs, dragons and small screaming children can hear.

I hoped my conspicuousness would shadow my allies because nothing else would.

Then, I ran and fired any spell that came to mind. Most of them had a negligible effect, but they still made a bright flash and she  _really_  didn't like those flying towards her eyes.

All the while, I wracked my brains for a way to stop that tail. Each sweep cleared the area and gave some people a very bad day.

Many ideas didn't work. Making her teeth fall out, blinding her, turning her horns into lightning rods, the imperius, legilimency; it all failed. For a long while, the most I did was run like a loon with a dragon breathing down my neck (and why does that feel like a metaphor for my teenage years?).

Eventually I hit an idea that I was sure would work by at least, like, 65%. There was a small possibility of turning her tail into a club, instead.

I cancelled my presentation and while Alistair darted in to occupy the lady's attention, I ducked under her belly, dodged a kick, and smeared a permanent sticking charm on the floor.

Her tail whistled through the air, gained some leverage and came crashing down. And that's where it stayed.

She roared and twisted with the agility of a cat. She thrashed with such speed that, before I knew it, a forepaw had come from nowhere and slammed me into the ground. My head cracked against the stone and I saw stars. Forget train, it was like being hit by the entire station.

I blinked. The cloudy sky was above me, rain falling in my eyes, and the next moment I was floating… No, I was suspended in her jaws and they were  _contracting_. My armour groaned but it held. Whatever the beast was made of pressed against my enchantments, wearing them away like acid. My only comfort was that I was too large to swallow whole.

I panicked. As soon as I squirmed she violently shook her head, trying to tear my limbs off from the force of her movements. With each lunge, her teeth worked their way closer.

It was by complete chance that I got my hand to her skin in time to shout, "Relashio!"

It worked. Her muscles released and I flew from her grip in a high arc, flipping arse over heels. A cushioning spell saved my neck, but I landed as one giant, thoroughly whiplashed bruise.

"Potter!" Someone knelt by my head. Their face was hard to distinguish; my vision was blurred, but I recognised Loghain in the uniquely cranky concern.

"I'm fine," I lied, struggling to get my shaking elbows under me. "Kill it!" I waved a hand in the direction where I thought the Archdemon might be. He ran the other way, so maybe not.

Weapon… weapon, where? Then I shook my head. Obviously I was more scrambled than I'd thought. "Accio dagger!"

The hilt slammed into my palm. I stood slowly, shakily, and turned in time to see the Wardens bearing down on the Archdemon.

Wynne peppered her with ice spells, the healer dodged fire in return. Cousland and Alistair occupied the head; both warriors received burns and scrapes, bruises and puncture wounds. Their efforts paid off when Oghren leapt in and her neck bowed under the force of his swing.

As she wavered, rolling slightly from the dwarf's blow, Loghain spotted an opening. He lunged and carved a deep gouge from the softer skin under her forearm to her sternum. The tear gaped and from a distanced it appeared to open into a black void. Red blood fell. It was a sight I had feared would come too late.

It was the first significant wound. And Merlin, did she carry on about it!

The roar was enough to wake the dead. It certainly brought the darkspawn running.

Her legs bunched and she leapt – for a moment, her tail trapped her. She lunged once more and it tore free, leaving a sheet of scales on the stone. Well, it was a good idea while it lasted.

I thought she was spitting mad when this all began. Incorrect. Now  _that_  was spitting mad. She rained fire in retaliation, jumping around the battlefield with abandon. I couldn't get close enough to reapply Langlock, or do much of anything.

Her rampage set her on course with the mages. Our healers. Without them…

"Harry, slow it down, now!" Alistair called.

"On it, incarcerous!" rope lashed around the dragon's front legs, tightening to an eye-watering degree. It did absolutely fuck all.

"Impedimenta!" she struggled against my hold for a moment –a long moment where I thought I had her– before she powered through it.

A pause is better than nothing. A pause at the right moment can win or lose a fight.

The Archdemon reared and snarled, flashing her teeth for all to see. Then an arrow was sprouting from her mouth. A second quickly followed.

I flashed Leliana a salute.

A feeling came over me; a sense of optimism. It gave me courage and I found more strength to hit harder and dodged faster.

The minions were being handled, the dragon would fall.

"What  _is_  that?" Loghain called, looking over my shoulder. What I saw was smoking, inhuman. It burned with an unearthly glow.

It necessitated a double take.

That bubbly feeling dropped down a few notches, right into my stomach. I groaned. "It's a rather long, pretty painful, terribly boring story. But it's a spirit of Hope, I think."

"You… think?"

"Probably," I'm never going to take anything from spirits as face value again. "Maybe?"

"What is it doing here?"

"Haven't a clue," I answered, which was technically true if 'here' meant 'top of Fort Drakon, staring down Archdemon'. He was most likely referring to it being this side of the veil. Semantics.

"Propagator of despair, agent of dejection!" Hope glided forward with each word, negligently burning any darkspawn that didn't scramble out of range fast enough. It never took its eyes from the Archdemon.

Hope was tall and spindly, its bottom half enclosed in a skirt of coals. Its sharply angled face was somewhat angelic in the right light. It looked the part of an avenging angel.

"Put up your sword!" it beseeched simply, but I think I'm right in saying we all, despite the odds and the adversary, felt hope burning in us.

The dragon hissed at the spirit (I suspect they had some hope/despair dominance thing going on) and pounced.

"Locomotor Mortis!" I yelled.

All her weight was on one foot, the other raised to step. For just one second, the joints locked. She's a bloody big animal and usually that's another weapon in her arsenal, but it worked against her now. She was committed to shifting her mass forward to where she expected her leg to be. It was a miss-stepped.

Her head slammed into the floor with enough force to fracture the stone, sending chips of it into the air.

We reacted quickly.

"It's down, keep it down, Maker damn it!" Cousland shouted.

The warriors sprung in to take full advantage of the access to her head. The mages cast enough ice to give her a severe brain freeze. The archers aimed for any gap between her scales.

She was dazed but still snapping. She shook her head to clear it, with the effect of wielding her skull like a club. Attackers went flying.

Her shoulders bunched; she meant to move. Ropes wouldn't hold her; she shrugged off the effect of another leg-locker.

The  _one time_  I needed some rubble and there was nothing but pebbles to drop on her head.

There was only one thing for it, then.

"Cover me!" I called at Leliana and the nearest friendly soldier.

"Bombarda!" I cast without waiting for a response. The blasting curse hit the side of the ramparts and the resulting explosion rained darkspawn and dust onto anyone unfortunate enough to be in the city below.

I levitated several chunks of newly procured rubble from the crater and pressed them down, bracketing the Archdemon's neck and shoulders.

She thrashed; her legs kicked and her claws scoured rifts in the stone. The muscular tail lashed back and forth, knocking the assailants off their feet.

She heaved her ponderous body up but I resisted. Heck, I did more than resist. The rock cracked between the opposing forces of her performance-enhanced strength and the full focus of my magic.

Time wore on. The soldier fell before me, keeping the darkspawn off my back. Three more nameless men moved to take his place.

The Archdemon stayed down.

She recognised defeat a heartbeat before Cousland brought a sword through the flat of her skull. The light left her eyes and filled everything else – a white pulse relayed outwards. Winds buffeted us, light blinded us, and it was over as quickly as it began.

First, it was silent. The remaining darkspawn froze. Cousland was the first on his feet, using his sword to prop himself upright. He stared down at the corpse incomprehensively.

The moment broke. The darkspawn routed, fleeing by the nearest exit and for most of them that was a long drop off the side of the Fort. A great cheer rose from the city as exhausted men found the energy to hound to monsters out of Denerim.

I felt light. Relieved. But I stayed down. I was tired and the city still burned. How many bodies were in that broken city? How many did I know?

Hope took one last look at me and left.

…

**Day 30 after The Battle**

I found Ripped while descending the Fort.

I spotted his body lying like a discarded doll, surrounded by the dead.

"God no, Ripped, Thomas!" Please just be unconscious, please, Merlin, Maker,  _please_. I could think of little else. "Wynne!"

The best healer I knew was there, but, "I am sorry, Harry, he is already gone."

The bodies around him, they were his men and Templars. He said he would back me up, he must've come through just as…

Well, I'd thought the Templars had stopped chasing me too quickly. And I hadn't even thought to turn back. I bowed my head, too weary to carry it further. The thrill of victory dried up entirely.

I feel guilty, really, because I can't help but be relieved. I am glad his death was the only one, that it was his body lacking all warmth and not Anders or Zevran or Sirius. But he was still my friend. He was too young, too bright to die.

Even Cousland and Alistair survived the Archdemon's death, somehow. I'm sure there is an explanation, since Cousland looks shifty and Alistair looks ill when I mention it. I probably don't want to know. Scratch that, I'm certain I don't want to know; I only keep asking because it makes Cousland uncomfortable and he's running out of subject changes.

The last time we spoke he blamed me for the state of his reputation. They're saying he pulled the golden age of the Wardens right out of his arse. They expect more from him, now.

I told him to blame Sirius. Everyone else does.

Other news: Sten is missing some fingers. He doesn't care. Loghain has acquired a permanent limp. It makes him look worldly. Zevran broke an arm.

"Ow." Unlike the others, the assassin complained every few hours, days after it was magically healed.

"You already said that," the nearest person would grouse. It was usually me, everyone else cleared out long ago.

His response was always the same; "Some things need to be reiterated."

He, Sirius and Anders were hailed for defending the people sheltering in the Palace. They arrived just before the guards were overwhelmed. Zevran is shamelessly milking it for all it's worth.

…

Morrigan vanished after the battle and hasn't been seen since. Sort of. She swore she'd do unspeakable things if I said otherwise.

"I thought you'd buggered off," I told the raven, pointedly.

The witch glared. "You shan't drive me away. We will have this conversation."

I signed, accepting the inevitable. "What do you want, then?"

Resurrection, Sirius, blackmail? Honestly, I'd seen it coming. It didn't faze me.

No, that she was interested in the methods, the magic behind it…  _that_  raised some interesting questions.

…

Amell is taking some time off to travel. She traced her lineage back to a noble family in Kirkwall, of all places. She's been told that some members still live, and she'd like to meet them.

The other mages have already left. The nutty Templars are under revision for falling to temptation, though Greogior assembled the slightly saner ones after a few days. Unofficially, he said the mages had earned a head start.

One mad Templar died after a week after the battle, seemingly of his wounds. I, personally, didn't think he'd acquired quite that many from the darkspawn. Zevran was darkly satisfied.

Whatever the outcome between the Mages and the Templars, we may have caused a slight revolution. My campaign against the Templars had done much to disenchant the public, then the Order's actions before the battle had earned them no favour. When the Blight came, the warriors who willingly stood between the innocent and the monsters had wielded magic. The people remembered it.

And didn't  _that_  upset their world view.

On a completely unrelated note, the Chantry rather viciously wants my head.

…

As for us… well, Anders was devastated. His relationship with Ripped had started as something casual, but they had kindled something special.

"I just… I need to be along for a while." Anders walked out of the city that night.

"Will we go after him?" Sirius asked.

"Give him space," I allowed. "Not yet."

…

Sirius, Zevran and I weren't without things to do.

The darkspawn left their mark. The land remained harsh and desolate in their wake. It was worse in the places the horde had occupied for long periods – like Lothering. There, the rot had well and truly set in. The trees groaned and the leaves were shrivelled. Even the dirt was toxic, infecting any animals and people who tried to live by it.

Normally, the world would cleanse itself over time, but the taint is just as bad as radiation. Normal fire wouldn't touch it, turning the earth just made it worse. But there isn't a substance known to man that fiendfyre can't devour. Its destructive prowess, for the first time, was used to cleanse the land. I trawled the path from Denerim to Lothering, from Ostagar to the deep roads entrance, and it burnt away everything, including that horrible stain.

Sirius called it a grudge. I hit him. Zevran supposed I was making way for new life. That comment got him an odd look. It was an odd thing for the assassin to say. Not wrong though.

The battle is over, just the politics remain. At that, it was time for Zevran, Sirius and I to take our leave. We'll give Anders a couple weeks, a month at most, then it'll be friendly intervention.

That's it, I guess. We pick a significant event, we call it The End. It's never really the end, of course, but my hand is cramped and there are ink stains on my fingers, so this'll do.

…

_*The reader leafs through the remaining pages, but they are blank._

After a long period of pensive silence, the reader speaks. "His description of battle matches Leliana's report very closely."

"So that crap about countless griffins flying in to save the world from a Blight, the spirits of dead Wardens on their backs, breathing fire, appearing, disappearing, et cetera… that actually happened? We heard about it in Kirkwall but no one was mad enough to  _believe_  it."

"The Fade reflected something similar," a smooth voice adds, "Even the spirits did not seem to know what to make of it."

"Did Nightingale sustain a head injury during the battle? I mean, it's been a few years. A detail here, a fact there… trust me, a bit of exaggeration goes a long way."

"He was clearly insane," the reader allows. "His view of the world could have been skewed."

"Not entirely true, Seeker. He wasn't all there in the beginning, but he gathered enough marbles to route a darkspawn army with a few allies and even fewer spells. We have him to thank for the lowest Blight death toll in history."

"While we're at it, we can thank him for the civil war," the Seeker fires back, "After all, he empowered the mages and unleashed the demon that started all of this. I do not doubt he contributed to more recent troubles, either."

"Give Anders the credit he's known for, Seeker. He put in the hours to teach every mage in Ferelden."

"Do not get me started about Anders, dwarf."

The fourth party, silent until now, artfully interrupts the buddying argument. "I want to know what he meant when he wrote about physics. Particularly in terms of the veil tear."

"I agree with the Inquisitor. Understanding is the key to closing the breach, and we could find some answers in him."

"He is dangerous," the Seeker cautions.

"We're  _all_  dangerous," the Varric mutters.

" _We_  are not undying." Cassandra points out with a glare. "And besides, I still do not believe all this. There must be at least some mistakes. For one, the demon could not have been one of Hope; look at what it has done!"

"It is not so mysterious," the elf objects. "You view of demons is far too polarised, Seeker. You see demons as evil and that spirits must be their opposites; somehow fundamentally good. Maybe so. But out of Rage or Hope, which is more dangerous, I wonder?"

"Yeah, given recent events, I'm with Chuckles on this one."

Solas nods resolutely. "Blind hope can do terrible things, for all its good intentions."

Cassandra sighs, "Could this version of events possibly be true, then?"

"I believe so. His theories about spirits are correct, or close to it. He is not a hapless individual, to have figured that out."

"So demons  _can_  just switch like that?"

"Not so easily. It was the right place and the right time. Spirits depend on us for inspiration. They look at the world and what do they see? Anger surely more than hope. It is a rare occurrence that there is more hope in a city than anger. More importantly, it was the right person. The way they appear  _to_  a person depends  _on_  a person. That particular rage demon had refined a bond, using it to syphon Harry's anger for power. The fuel changed. So did the end result."

"That's the part I'm struggling with. Hope from Rage, seriously Chuckles?"

"A romantic lens tends to obscure reality. We like to imagine that the inversion of rage would be calmness or perhaps something more flowery, like serenity. But there is more to it than that. Rage is blind, a single-minded focus; that is what defines it. An opposite redirection of rage cannot forgo its all-consuming energy. Hope has that, but instead of drawing from and amplifying pain by stewing, hope is acceptance of the past and faith in the future. If you want to change who you are, you don't want to become any less… but acquiring a new vision, providing a direction to that passion, that is enough. It does not take a pure soul to shape a pure spirit. One must be in control of oneself for rage to present as hope."

There is silence once again, until Cassandra affirms, "I will believe he is a world travelling, immortal wizard when I see it."

"Fair enough. The notion is slightly ridiculous," Solas agrees.

The Inquisitor sighs, "This is enlightening, and all, but is he a likely suspect? He certainly has the power and the skill."

"Eh," Varric shrugs, "Who can say? Even if he's not the cause, he could still be a great help."

"Or a bigger problem," Cassandra maintains.

"We shall see," Solas predicts.

Varric remarks, "Yeah, probably. We already know where he went next."

"We do?"

"What, you haven't heard? This guy leaves footprints the size of legends. Come on Seeker, I'll point at a map. That might trigger something."

The Inquisitor follows them out; their argument fades with distance. In the silent hollow left by the trio, the heavy thinking is almost an audible thing.

"You, my friend," Solas directs at the pages, "are not living up to your potential."


End file.
